


Psych Evaluation

by AmandaLee



Category: Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris, X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Baltimore state forensic hospital, Cannibalism, Chilton is an asshole, Gen, Hannibal and Erik are cellmates, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper, Homophobic Language, M/M, Prison, Racist Language, hints at Stockholm syndrome, mindfuckery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:18:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1984428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmandaLee/pseuds/AmandaLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of being sent to the plastic prison at the end of X1, Erik makes an insanity plea and goes to the Baltimore State Forensic Hospital for the criminally insane, where he meets a certain well-mannered psychiatrist with a taste for human flesh. With an inhibitor microchip implanted to suppress his mutant powers, Erik's only defense is his intellect, but will it be enough to keep Hannibal off his back?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Chapter 1_

He knew that his insanity plea had greatly displeased the DA and everyone else who wanted to see him hang for his crimes. Technically the death penalty in the state of New York entailed lethal injection, but the mere mechanics of it mattered little. He was labeled a terrorist and that was enough to make the American people crave his blood. Mindless sheep. If only just a few of them were capable of independent thought, they would see him in a very different light. 

A prison had been chosen for him. Technically it was a mental health institution for the criminally insane, but it was a prison in all aspects except the name. Supposedly things were overseen by a shrink rather than a warden. Big difference. He knew that such positions, due to the power it granted them over the less fortunate, attracted psychopaths and sadists, and based on what he knew of this Dr. Frederick Chilton, he had character traits of both, on top of obvious delusions of grandeur. It was probably why the pompous bastard had arranged for him to be accepted into the Baltimore State Forensic Hospital.

Erik was on a transfer bus set to take him and fourteen other inmates to the asylum. He was the oldest one in the group, one of three white men, probably the only mutant amongst them. There was no way to be sure, but none of the others was wearing an inhibitor collar, or in his case, a microchip implanted under the skin to restrain his powers. The only visible proof of it being in place was a small surgical scar on his nape, just below the hairline, but he could feel the bump of it against his fingertips if he chose to touch the area. It was a grim reminder of his helplessness. Without his mutant power he could be easily forced into submission by these grunts posing as law enforcement officers and orderlies. Not to mention his fellow inmates…

Many of the men onboard were sleeping, lulled into a stupor by the steady purr of the engine and the soft bumps of a vehicle in motion. Erik, however, was not. How could he sleep at a time like this? His life as he knew it was over, and might even be quite literally unless he found some way to keep the rowdiest of "patients" off his back. Genius-level intellect notwithstanding, Erik had never been a physical fighter. And reputation meant nothing if it couldn't be backed up with solid proof. 

It was raining outside, dark, heavy clouds gathered, and oddly enough, the mutant found it comforting. It would have felt even worse to leave the free world on a bright, sunny day only to realize that he would never again be granted the luxury of seeing it. At least not through anything but a thick pane of glass. 

The bus came to a grinding halt, brakes screeching, and the men were ordered to exit, leg irons making movement both slow and cumbersome. Erik was not used to walking with his ankles chained to one another. He stumbled several times, but no one paid any heed to his apparent difficulties. He was expected to keep up with the group, not slow it down. How long would it take him to acclimatize to these conditions? A week? A month? Forever? 

Unwanted memories resurfaced; memories of being penned up with hundreds of other boys and young men, the stench of death and decay, of unwashed bodies and urine, all mixing together in a nauseating potpourri of hopelessness one could never hope to escape from. But he had done it. He had not only survived, but extracted his revenge on those he deemed guilty of his suffering. He wouldn't go as far as to say Fate had smiled upon him, but for someone who had been at Death's door and wasn't expected to make it through that horribly cold winter of '44, he had accomplished miracles. Erik's conscious mind rebuked the idea. He did not believe in miracles, or luck, for that matter. Success depended on an excellent strategy executed with precision. He ought to know. Either way, he was shit out of luck now. 

The small troupe of inmates-to-be were taken in through the gates. Erik, though feeling like he was walking ten feet behind his own body, took in the sight of the big, ugly, brown brick building that made up the Baltimore State Forensic Hospital and wondered if Dr. Chilton had trouble getting funding for basic maintenance work, as the place looked quite decrepit, at least as far as the outside was concerned. He decided to store that particular piece of information in his memory. Perhaps there was some way he could use it to his advantage… if an opportunity would arise. 

Erik, along with the other fourteen men, were taken into the first part of processing. He was subjected to a humiliating strip-search by a granite-eyed security guard wearing blue gloves, although the feeling of being an onlooker watching himself from a distance did not abate and took away some of the humiliation. Erik was practically the only one whose skin was not covered by extensive tattoos; some gang-related, some tribal, others non-sensical or merely present for shock value. Assuming, of course, that one discounted the numbers forever etched onto his arm. Though none of the other seemed to pay him any attention, he made an attempt to cover up the hateful string of digits they had branded him with so long ago. Knowing his past would give them power over him, and Erik wanted to avoid that at all costs. 

Each inmate was given the essentials: the standard issue dull blue prison jumpsuit, a white T-shirt, a pair of underwear, bedclothes, a roll of toilet paper and one small bar of soap. Erik dressed as quickly as he could and held on to his essentials. A few of his fellow inmates were probably here because they did not respect the right of ownership, and he did not want to take any chances. 

Another law enforcement officer, a tall, attractive, if somewhat masculine blonde woman in her late thirties, entered the holding area carrying a clipboard and began to inform the new arrivals of the institution's rules and regulations. She sounded as if she was citing it from memory, probably not for the first time, and Erik only listened enough to grasp the basics. 

"Welcome to Baltimore State, gentlemen. My name is Margot Verger. You may call me Officer Verger or ma'am, your choice. Not sir. Try it once, and you'll find out what happens."

Her pale blue hawk eyes pierced their way through the group of men, and no one uttered a word. A few of the new inmates fidgeted nervously. 

"We're going to treat you as well as you treat us," Verger continued. Her voice was a deep alto, authoritative but friendly enough. She did not sound like a cruel person or a sadist. "If you behave, you get three hots and a cot. If not…" Her hand went to the taser gun she carried in a holster on her hip. "I think you can figure out what happens if you don't. No idiots here? Good. Then we can move on what's expected from you during your stay here."

She signed something on the clipboard she was holding. 

"Your cell is your home, and you're responsible for whatever goes on inside it. For your own sake, keep it spotless. Clean it regularly. If you're caught hiding any unauthorized objects or substances in your cell, you will be punished for it. Punishment can range from anything between having your privileges cancelled to a stay in the SHU. You won't like it, that's all you have to remember. If you don't know the value of self-discipline, it's time to learn. Do I make myself clear, gentlemen?" 

A half-hearted, affirmative murmur went through the group, and Verger seemed satisfied with it. She proceeded to open a locked door and the men were herded through it and split into smaller groups, probably being taken to different units. Erik and two others were escorted underground, to the maximum security unit. He did his best to keep track of the twists and turns of the multiple corridors, but after a while he was hopelessly lost despite intense focus. The drugs they'd given him had a debilitating effect on his memory, and the feeling of being detached from his physical self added to it. 

Verger herself oversaw the transport of the maximum security inmates, her heels making a rhythmic, hollow clatter against the linoleum floor. The woman moved with an easy confidence, undeterred by the lunacy and danger that surrounded her on all sides. Erik wondered if she was really that aloof, or if it was a front she put up to preserve her own sanity. 

Erik and his two fellow inmates were escorted to the rec room of Unit C, block B. The room was filled with prisoners - patients, Erik reminded himself - engaged in various activities, such as playing cards or board games, or in the case of the over-medicated ones, something solitary, such as laying a jigsaw puzzle. A couple of them were staring listlessly into thin air, not even aware of their surroundings. 

Erik shuddered at the idea of becoming one of them. 

Most of the men looked up at the new arrivals, and there were some muted whispers exchanged between them. Holding his head high, the mutant tried to ignore the eyes wandering over his body, observing, judging. How many of them knew who he was, and what he had done? The inmates were allowed access to traditional printed media, as far as he knew. How many had adopted the media's ill-concealed antipathy toward mutants? Mental patients, if any, were impressionable and vulnerable to suggestion. 

He was grateful that his appearance was not terribly likely to elicit any unsolicited attempts at sexual overtures from the other inmates. He was not young enough and not pretty enough to be an obvious target. If they sought him out, it would be to beat him into a bloody pulp. 

They were joined by a man built like a veritable bulldozer, wearing a crisp white mental health nurse's uniform. Margot Verger was a tall woman, but even with heels on, she barely came up to his ear. The man looked like he could easily deter any altercation between inmates singlehandedly. Erik could see why they'd hired him at a place like this. 

"Hey Barney," she said. "Ready to tackle this?" She showed him her clipboard, and the big man frowned, his broad, brown forehead wrinkling.

"You can't put Lensherr in with Sammy," he said, his voice just as deep and gravelly as could be expected from a guy his size. "Sammy's autistic. He can't stand having anyone in his personal space. It'll end badly."

Verger's mouth twitched, and she seemed to seriously consider his input. A CO taking advice from a mere nurse and a nurse brave enough to voice his opinion? These two obviously knew and respected one another deeply enough to allow that kind of unhindered communication. 

"That leaves only two. You know which ones," she said pointedly. 

Erik had a bad feeling about this. He had not expected having to share a cell with anyone, even though the rational aspect of his mind knew that a public institution's budget constraints did not allow single prisoners (patients) to have an entire cell for themselves. He was probably fucked. 

"Not Miggs," Barney said with conviction. "You… know how he is."

"Don't I ever." Verger snorted. She appeared to have something else to add, but thought better of it and kept it to herself. "Then I'll have to put him with Lecter."

Erik could sense the hesitation radiating from both of them. Whoever this Lecter character was, he had managed to instill fear even in a man of Barney's size and unwavering disposition. He was certain that he had heard the name before, in some other context, but he could not for the life of him remember when or where. Oh well, he was due to find out very shortly. 

Barney finally nodded, his face like stone, unreadable. "I'll sort it," he said.

Verger wrote something on her clipboard and looked pleased to have reached a verdict. Whatever problems would arise, they were no longer hers to deal with. Her job here was done. 

"He's all yours, Barney," she said, and for the first time, she actually smiled. Erik couldn't help but wonder if there was something more than mutual respect and understanding between her and the big nurse. 

Barney placed a broad, heavy hand, radiating heat, on Erik's shoulder and encouraged him to move. No force, just simple persuasion. None was required. If he wanted to, this man could easily pick him up and throw him over his shoulder, and there wasn't a damned thing Erik could do about it. So he complied. This time Verger did not follow them.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik is introduced to his new cellmate.

_Chapter 2_

The heavy door slammed shut and the lock grated into place with a loud, whirring noise. He was irrevocably trapped. Nurse Barney's hand remained on the mutant's shoulder, gently guiding. The white tile walls down here all looked the same from floor to ceiling. Depressing, sterile. Erik wasn't sure if they were meant to invoke feelings of tranquility or hopelessness. 

He was purposely dragging his feet after him in an attempt to postpone the inevitable. He did not want to meet his cellmate; this Lecter who'd apparently had a cell to himself, because of… what, exactly? Erik knew that the obvious answer was because Lecter's previous cellmate had died and the staff had refrained from putting him with someone new. Until now. He remembered the look in Verger's eyes, the furtive glances exchanged between her and Barney. Lecter had to be a monster.

Up until now, Barney had been silent during their walk. Then he suddenly addressed Erik. 

"Why are you here?" the big man asked. Some found it hard to understand his rough, deep voice, but Erik decided he found it pleasant.

"Ask your boss," he replied.

"I'm asking you."

"You want to know what my psych evaluation says?"

"Sure."

"They used plenty of textbook terms to describe my condition. Are you familiar with medical jargon?" The man was just a nurse, after all. He hoped he had not offended Barney with his question.

"I have an LPN," Barney replied with a great amount of dignity. LPN stood for _Licensed Practical Nurse_. "And I took a mail-order course in psychology. As well as some other things."

Erik almost found himself smiling. He was pleasantly surprised that Barney had a sense of humor despite working in a place like this.

"I'm unstable. A megalomaniac. Narcissistic, self-righteous, with anti-social characteristics. And they call me a terrorist."

Barney raised one eyebrow. "Is that why you think you're here?" he asked. 

The mutant snorted. "I'm here because I wanted to beat the needle," he said simply. 

Laughter erupted from Barney's thick barrel chest. "You're pragmatic," he said with something that could have been admiration… and perhaps a hint of relief? "He'll like that about you."

Erik's antennae went up. "He?"

Barney suddenly stopped walking altogether and leaned forward until he was practically on eye-level with Erik, their faces mere inches apart. Despite Barney's size, Erik did not feel threatened by him. Instead he had already come to think of the nurse as a pillar of strength. He would not call it trust - not yet - but he had a distinct feeling Barney was his best chance of surviving in this hellhole. 

"Do you spook easily, Erik?" Barney asked earnestly.

"No," the mutant answered. Which was true. He could not, however, deny that he was terrified at the moment.

"Good, because I'd like to see you make it in here. Whatever you do, be polite and don't antagonize him. He'll leave you be as long as you show him respect. And remember, no foul language or swearing. He hates that. Do you hear me?"

Erik's mind was practically pulp, his thoughts swimming and liquid. Barney had to be talking about Lecter. Why did that last name sound so familiar? He swallowed repeatedly to wet his parched throat. His heart rate increased, pulse pounding in his ears loud as a drum, and for a split moment he almost wished he'd had a weak heart and would suffer a heart attack before he was shoved headfirst into the snake pit. 

"I hear you," he got out, his voice almost as rough as Barney's own. 

They continued, passing through yet another corridor and a door with a lock, to which Barney had keys. The word "RESTRICTED" was printed in large, bold letters on the door. The hallway they had entered was approximately 80 feet long with cells facing the wall only on the left side. The fluorescent lights in the ceiling lit up the corridor - and the cells - and the effect included garish and artificial shadows. Erik shuddered. This was his life now. He fought hard not to cry.

Barney seemed to sense that he needed time to collect himself and patiently waited while Erik gathered his breath and his courage. A few seconds passed, and the mutant nodded, signaling that he was ready to continue. 

Lecter's cell, which he would be sharing, was past the others, facing a broom cupboard. 

_What a lovely view._

The lump in Erik's throat refused to go away. There were people in the cells they passed, and he tried to ignore them, but for some reason his eyes were drawn to their misery. Perhaps because it was soon to become his misery as well. 

The first inmate to have a cell all to himself was an obese middle-aged black man with a thick, bushy grey beard. He did not look up when Barney and the newest arrival passed, and Erik quickly realized that he had met Sammy, his initially intended cellmate. The one with autism that couldn't stand having other people in his personal space. Right. He wondered what Sammy had done to earn himself a place in the maximum security unit of an insane asylum, and at the same time, he didn't want to know.

The next patient was the polar-opposite of Sammy. A small, skinny man, more monkey-like than human in his movements and behavior, clinging to the bars of his cell and staring at Erik with the uninhibited glee of a psychotic madman. Miggs. Good lord. For the first time since entering the asylum, Erik felt a pang of gratitude toward the people in charge for not putting him in with this… thing. 

Then the unexpected happened. Despite Barney and Erik supposedly being well out of range for Miggs' grappling hands, the lunatic somehow managed to twist through the bars far enough to grab Erik's sleeve. The sound of a seam bursting and fabric tearing quickly followed, and before Erik could react, Barney had his baton out and delivered a painful but not crushing blow to Miggs' arm. The small man recoiled into his cell, howling with pain, and cradled his injured limb to his chest. 

"Behave, Miggs!" Barney snarled, and for the first time Erik caught a glimpse of what the gigantic nurse looked like when provoked into anger. 

The realization hit him with instant clarity. The man should not have been able to reach him at such a distance, unless… Miggs was a mutant, and his ability constituted enhanced agility. The notion that he would be sharing this place with one of his own did not provide Erik any comfort. He wondered if Miggs himself even knew what he was, or if the poor, pathetic creature was too far out of touch with reality to have any clue. 

"You alright?" Barney asked with genuine concern. He was no-nonsense, but ultimately jovial and good-hearted. A fine combination.

Erik nodded mutely and they continued their trek down the corridor. Only Lecter's cell remained, and Erik steeled himself for the encounter. Considering what he'd seen so far, his cellmate could hardly be any worse. 

Doctor Hannibal Lecter was sitting at a table bolted to the floor, working fastidiously on a charcoal sketch. He was wearing the same dull blue prison jumpsuit and flat shoes minus shoelaces as Erik himself and all the other inmates, but there was nothing in the man's carriage or mannerisms that suggested he was mad or incarcerated for having committed unspeakable acts. Everything about him contrasted sharply with the environment. 

Lecter did not immediately look up when Barney and Erik approached. He took his time, as if he was deigning to face them, and then stood up, his movements sleek and controlled. Lecter's maroon eyes came to rest on Erik, his gaze unflinching. Erik knew what was going on; he was being sized up. Wheels were turning quickly inside the man's capacious skull, but apart from that, Lecter was impossible to read, just as inaccessible as a marble statue. When their eyes met, Erik could see small pinpoints of red light reflecting in his new cellmate's pupils, and he thought for a moment that Lecter's gaze throbbed, but on closer consideration, it was more likely to be his own heart. 

"Good morning, Barney," Lecter said, his voice raspy and metallic. He sounded very cultivated, his enunciation flawless and rich. Still nothing about him suggested madness, and it occurred to Erik that perhaps Hannibal Lecter was here for the same reason he was; an insanity plea being the only way to avoid the death penalty. 

"Good morning, Doctor Lecter," Barney replied. "This is Erik Lensherr. He's to be your cellmate from now on."

The doctor said nothing. Erik wondered what he was doctor of. Literature, perhaps? There were plenty of books stacked on the small bookshelf at the foot of the bunk beds. He could recognize most of the titles, even though only a few of them were written in English. 

"You cool with that, doctor?" Barney asked, a tad uncertain. What kind of man was this, if the staff felt they had to let him authorize changes before implementing them? 

"Send him in," Lecter suggested, an almost-smile playing about his lips. "I'll give you my answer later in the day."

Barney appeared pleased with the answer and proceeded to unlock the door to the cell. Plenty of silent communication went on between the nurse and the incarcerated doctor which did not include Erik - at least not at this point. The locks on these doors were not of the electronic kind, but manual devices that could only be opened with the old-fashioned set of keys, likely to avoid "accidents" in case of a sudden blackout or a power surge. Most if not all of these patients were unlikely to be allowed outside their cells unsupervised. 

Erik, holding hard onto his bedclothes and hygiene articles, took a step inside and twitched when the last door to the outside slammed shut behind him. He heard Barney's assurance that should he need anything, he could give a call at any time, but he wasn't sure the big nurse could get in there fast enough to prevent an attack on him, should Lecter decide to charge. 

Barney left, and they were alone. Erik stood riveted to the spot. He wasn't sure where to lay his eyes. The cell was so small, only about 12 by 12 feet. There was absolutely nowhere to go, no privacy to be had. If his new cellmate disliked him enough to want to kill him to get the cell all to himself again, there probably wasn't much Chilton could do to punish Lecter. Well, perhaps take away his books and his drawings and limit the time he was allowed to spend outside the cell. But definitely nothing more. 

The doctor was the first to break the silence. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced," he said in that soft, almost hypnotic voice of his. "Doctor Hannibal Lecter, at your service. A pleasure to meet you."

The man extended his hand, and Erik felt obliged to shake it, lest he appear rude. He remembered Barney's admonishment "don't antagonize him" and figured it was best to take it to heart. He and Lecter seemed to know each other well. 

The doctor's grip was steady and firm, his palms dry and his fingernails perfectly manicured. The handshake was sufficient to communicate the raw physical strength of the man he shook hands with. Lecter was not big, but he was most certainly deceptively strong. Stronger than Erik for sure.

"Erik Lensherr," he croaked out. "Hello."

Lecter smiled properly for the first time, and Erik could see that he had small, white and actually rather pointy teeth. The smile itself was eerie and increased the level of Erik's discomfort. 

"You are a mutant, aren't you, Erik? May I call you Erik?"

"Uhh…" Erik stammered. "Yes…and yes. How did you--"

"By all means, call me Hannibal. There's no point in sticking to titles if we're going to be in each other's company from day to day."

"Oh. Alright." 

Erik remained standing, while Lecter sat down at his miniscule desk and resumed working on his drawing. Several other drawings were posted on the wall, all of them excellent. Amongst the ones Erik could recognize were a sketch of the medieval wound man, a charcoal copy of Caravaggio's Judith and Holofernes, graphic as ever, and a view of a city whose classical architecture suggested either France or Italy. Was it possible that Hannibal Lecter could have sketched all that detail just from memory? It sounded incredible. 

"That is _Il Duomo_ seen from the Belvedere," the doctor said, apparently having noticed Erik's lingering gaze despite having his back toward him. "Do you know Florence, Erik?"

"I've been there… once. A long time ago." That seemed like another life already.

"Ahh." Lecter spoke without turning around. "Please do sit down, Erik. Your legs must be getting tired."

The doctor's prediction was correct, but there was only one chair in the cell, and Lecter himself was occupying it. It too was bolted to the floor, like the table. Erik's eyes moved on to the two bunk beds. The bottom bunk was occupied and neatly made, so he assumed his cellmate was using it. The top bunk held only a thin, striped mattress. No blanket, not even a pillow. Wonderful. 

Sighing, he climbed up to make his bed. Well aware of his lack of grace, he hoped Lecter would not bestow him a look throughout the awkward procedure, although the man had an uncanny ability to notice things despite supposedly focusing on something else. Erik almost felt compelled to check if his cellmate was a mutant with eyes in the back of his head. He dismissed the silly notion with a humorless snort of laughter. 

Erik lay down on his side, knees to his chest, and tried to use his arm to compensate for the lack of a pillow to support his head. He knew his shoulder would not be thanking him later, but until he could ask Barney to bring him a pillow - or two, if possible - he did not have a choice. He closed his eyes, trying to will his racing thoughts to slow down. The entire day had been a vicious assault on his senses. The lights, the sounds, the smells… He wasn't sure he'd ever get used to it. At least Lecter's cell did not smell entirely of sweat and cheap detergent, and even though he was clearly a madman, he at least appeared to be a civil, rational madman with a sense of taste and propriety. Hell, Erik could have drawn a worse lot. Perhaps he ought to be grateful for his choice of a cellmate.

When he opened his eyes, the doctor was standing by the bunk beds, looking at him with those oddly colored eyes. The intensity of his gaze made the hairs stand up on Erik's forearms and he struggled not to look away. He guessed Lecter to be approximately the same age as he, or perhaps somewhat younger. It was difficult to tell his age simply by looking at him. 

"To begin with, you should know that I did not ask for a cellmate," Lecter said. He spoke in an even, businesslike voice. There was no venom behind his words, or resentment. He merely sounded disinterested, if anything. "But since you are here, there are certain things you ought to know about me, certain rules you need to follow. No discourtesy, no slovenly behavior, or disrespect toward myself will be tolerated. If you wish to use something of mine, ask beforehand. Respect my privacy as much as can be done in a place like this, and I will bestow you the same courtesy."

Erik blinked, surprised by the frankness. There had to be something he didn't know; a catch. Lecter would not be down here if there wasn't. 

"That's all?" Erik asked cautiously. 

"For now." 

He heard the dismissal in the doctor's tone and deemed it wise not to ask any more questions at this point. 

Lecter chuckled, returning to his desk. "You and I will get on famously, Erik. I'm sure of it." 

TBC...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik has an altercation with a fellow inmate, and Hannibal steps in as the savior... but is there a reason to question his motives?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence and cannibalism. There is also attempted rape/non-con and racial/homophobic language. Proceed with caution if you are a sensitive person.

_Chapter 3_

The first week in the asylum passed almost smoothly. Erik asked Barney for a pillow and a blanket, and got them. The big nurse seemed almost apologetic for having forgotten to provide such necessities. Hannibal Lecter did not address him again after their initial introductions and the other's laying down of the law. The doctor spent most of his time either on his bunk or sitting at his desk, reading, writing or sketching. He had plenty of journal subscriptions and apparently also received lots of mail. Fan mail from deranged women, offering him marriage proposals? Some people's stupidity never ceased to surprise Erik. 

The routines of the asylum were easy to remember. Twenty-three hours in the cell, one hour to walk around, visit the shitty library, go to the showers. Barney informed him that he would be taking his meals in his cell until he was deemed "trustworthy" enough to join the other patients in the canteen. Not that the mutant minded. Inside the cell he was at least safe from their violence. Lecter seemed content to ignore him, treating Erik with casual indifference as if the other was nothing more than a prop or a piece of furniture. Erik wasn't sure if he should be offended or relieved, but either way, he was going to disturb the fragile equilibrium out of boredom. 

Sleep was a hard-earned commodity. Miggs, for most of the time, was the cause of the racket. The poor disturbed soul spent long hours screaming, howling, rattling the bars, or throwing himself from wall to wall, whatever to keep his fellow inmates awake as much as possible. Erik fashioned himself a pair of home-made earplugs out of pillow stuffing, but they did little to block out the infernal noise of a madman's cries. Oddly enough, Lecter did not seem bothered by it. He slept like the dead, usually on his back with his hands either crossed on his chest or folded behind his head. Whenever he was in such a trance-like state, Erik was tempted to run his hand across his cellmate's range of vision to see if he'd respond, but he never mustered up the courage to try it. 

One morning, at 8 AM, when the hallway lights came on, Hannibal Lecter was already awake and fully dressed and standing by Erik's bunk when the latter slowly woke up. The doctor was an early riser and normally awoke before Erik did, but never before had he awakened to finding the other man watching him so intently. A shiver went up the mutant's spine. 

"I'm sorry to have to say this," Lecter said, "but you are not following my rules."

To Erik it felt like a pang in the gut, and he rasped out a defensive "yes I am!" while he desperately searched the annals of his short term memory to identify what he'd done to offend his cellmate. He could not find anything.

"I'm not being rude, I respect your privacy, and I clean up after myself whenever possible," he said. "What else do you want from me?"

The doctor's lips thinned into a line, and for the first time since they got acquainted, Erik could see an emotional response in the other man. The emotion was long-suffering annoyance, but at least it was tangible and… _there_. It was a relief knowing Lecter was capable of _some_ emotion despite his stony surface. 

"Erik, I understand that you're frightened and not used to any of this, but you haven't bathed for a week, and you smell terrible. I can't have that." Lecter's tone was friendly, conversational, mild… but there was no question concerning the nature of it. "Go to the showers." 

It was not a request, that was made infinitely clear. He needn't add "or else"; Erik caught that bit on his own. He didn't bother asking what would happen in case he did not comply. The fact that Barney held such immense respect for this man was enough for him not to question. 

All things considered, Lecter did have a point. Erik's normally voluminous hair was lank and stiff with dirt and grease, and his clothes stuck to his frame due to several days' worth of sweat. He must have seriously repressed his own senses not to notice how bad he actually smelled.

"They'll tear me apart out there," he said quietly, trying to mentally and physically prepare for an encounter with his fellow patients. What if Miggs was out at the same time? Erik could remember the small man's slippery, damp fingers brushing against his arm when Miggs reached through the bars to grab him in passing. It made his skin crawl with unbridled disgust. 

Hannibal Lecter smirked. "You'll live through it," he said, and those were the last words uttered by him on that occasion.

*

When his hour outside the cell was due, Erik asked to be taken to the showers. The nurse on duty was not Barney, and Erik would have preferred to make the request to Barney rather than this man. His name was Parker, as could be read on a nametag worn on the chest of his nursing whites. He did not introduce himself or tell Erik his first name as Barney had done. Though nothing in his outward behavior revealed it, Erik could feel the nurse's dislike of him, which probably extended to mutants in general. He clearly possessed enough self-control so as not to brutalize a patient out of spite, but Erik knew he could not count on Parker to defend him if things got ugly. 

He was on his own, more or less. 

The shower area was thankfully almost empty when he arrived there. Two other patients were present, but only one of them looked up when Erik entered; the other, a pale, obese man with a slack-jawed expression and blank eyes, was too deep in his psychosis or perhaps too strongly medicated to be aware of his physical surroundings. He was not a threat, and the mutant marginally relaxed. The other man, however…

Threat assessment made, Erik nonetheless decided to go ahead with the shower. He shed his old clothes in the pile for dirty laundry and stepped in under one of the showerheads. The water was lukewarm at best and Erik couldn't help but wonder if they even kept it hot enough to prevent an outbreak of Legionnaire's disease. He was reluctant to close his eyes. One second of inattentiveness on his part was all it took and he could be lying on the wet tiles with a cracked skull in the seconds that followed. Or in case of a sexual predator, being raped while his blood mingled with the swirling currents of water, possibly until he bled out. 

Erik knew he needed to wash his hair before he was welcome back in the cell, and he pretended to busy himself with soaping his body while waiting for the inmate who was actually conscious to finish. A few minutes later his wish was granted. The man picked up his towel and went to get dressed without giving Erik so much as a glance, and he mutant breathed an audible sigh of relief. Finally. 

Feeling somewhat secure for the first time, Erik slipped the soap into his hair and began to scrub. Finally he dared close his eyes. 'Slack-jaws' had left as well - or been escorted out - and that suited him excellently. Erik had never had any particular hang-ups about nudity, but he did not like the idea of others seeing the numbers tattooed on his arm or the small surgical scar in the back of his neck which indicated the presence of an inhibitor chip. The less they knew about his personal history, the better. He knew how knowledge of someone's past could be used as weapon against them, and those rules did not cease to exist simply because they were in an insane asylum. 

A new presence in the shower room jolted Erik from his temporary relaxed reverie. Another man had entered, this one big and muscular, and very much _there_ by the look in his eyes. There was an awareness that had most definitely not been present in Slack-jaws, and, as Erik quickly came to realize, there was also something else: malice. 

During the seconds it took him to decide whether he ought to make a run for it or stay put and try to act fearless and hope the man would buy it, Erik's senses fed him more info on his would-be assailant. The man had been imprisoned for many years, but the lack of obvious over-medicated behavior suggested that rather than a delusional psychotic, he was dealing with a garden-variety sociopath, most certainly gang-affiliated. The man's arms and much of his torso were covered with tattoos, most of which meant nothing to Erik, but then he spotted one that turned his stomach into knots and his legs into jelly: the numbers 88 on the guy's right forearm. The eighth letter of the alphabet times two, also a code for ' _Heil Hitler_ '. 

The man who'd joined him in the showers was a neo-Nazi, most likely a member of the Aryan Brotherhood. Or White Nation. It didn't matter either way. Erik knew he was, in lack of a better term, screwed. 

Their eyes met for a moment while Erik's instinct of self-preservation kicked in, and he could see that the white supremacist's eyes were the same color as slate, and just as cold. He knew what the mutant was, and Erik could tell the man knew that _he_ knew. 

Had he been thirty years younger and at the top of his physical prowess, Erik might have succeeded in escaping his attacker, or perhaps even been able to fight him off. As of now, he almost made it too easy for the Nazi prick. A hand shot out and grabbed his hair, intercepting him before he had chance to reach the door. The nurse, Parker, was nowhere to be seen or heard. The bastard didn't care if a patient was raped or even murdered in here. Perhaps he had even arranged for the white supremacist to catch him in the showers, or perhaps he purposely turned a blind eye to what was going on. 

Erik was smashed face-first into the wet tile wall, and he instantly lost his footing, slipped and went down on his knees. There was no pain - not yet, but there would be, assuming he survived, oh yes - and for a moment he could neither see nor hear. There was blood in his mouth and in his eyes, pouring from a cut in his forehead and coloring his entire vision red. Erik tried to scream, but the weight of the Nazi bastard against his back coupled with the shock of the assault resulted in nothing but choked gurgles. He tried to counter with an elbow to the man's chest, but his movements were clumsy and uncoordinated, his strength lacking, and he received a vicious kick to his side for his troubles. Erik coughed onto the wet tiles, out of breath and out of ideas. He knew that fighting back would only make matters worse, perhaps even kill him, but there was no way in hell he would let this lowlife take what he wanted without a fight. 

Out of reflex rather than conscious effort Erik managed to head-butt the man, the back of his skull connecting with the white supremacist's nose, which made a satisfying crack. A spray of droplets hit his back that might have been blood but also water, and there was a cry, part pain, part anger from his assailant, who then slammed the mutant's face against the tiles once more. 

Erik's consciousness momentarily faded, along with his vision. When it returned, a hand pressed down against the small of his back, immobilizing him, and he could feel the man kneel behind him. He knew what was coming next and awaited the moment of the forced entry with immense terror. Rough hands prying his buttocks apart, digging into his body, and then a throaty voice, rough from excitement, very close to his ear.

"I'm gonna fuck you until you're choking on my dick, you mutant kike."

"Fuck you!" Erik sputtered out, his face half-immersed in water. 

"That's the idea."

Then the weight on his back was suddenly gone, and it took Erik a fraction of a second to realize he was no longer being restrained. Scrambling toward the wall, desperate to get away but not steady enough to do anything but crawl, he turned to look at the events unfolding. 

Hannibal Lecter, Erik's cellmate, was holding the neo-Nazi against the wall with a forearm against his throat while his other hand kept the larger man pliant by gripping his testicles. Howling with agony from having his private parts squeezed, Erik's would-be rapist then sprouted out pleas aimed at his own attacker, practically begging Lecter to spare him. 

His pleas fell on deaf ears. Growling like an animal and displaying none of his usual stillness or restraint, Lecter proceeded to lean in and bury his teeth in the white supremacist's cheek. When he withdrew moments later, his lips and chin were covered in blood, and Erik could plainly see a piece of the man's face between his teeth. The big, mean Nazi, now screaming like a stuck pig, had been reduced to a pitiful mess clutching at the torn remains of his visage, which was going to be forever scarred, no matter the amount of reconstructive surgery. 

Lecter looked at his victim with what could only be described as unbridled disgust and then slammed his head against the nearest shower knob, rendering the Nazi unconscious but not dead. Erik saw him chew and realized he was actually eating the part of the man's face he'd torn out with his teeth. The mutant quenched the impulse to throw up. 

For the next minute or so, Lecter stood calmly under the spray of the shower, rinsing the blood off his pale, almost white skin. His body was a blank canvas like Erik's own, free from tattoos. His ropey musculature was evident underneath the smooth, creamy surface of his skin, and Erik wondered what his cellmate did to stay in shape. 

Finally the doctor turned his attention towards Erik, and the mutant recoiled out of instinct, his back against the tile wall. Lecter might have saved him from being brutally raped and possibly murdered, but that didn't mean his intentions were noble. 

"Let me see," Lecter ordered calmly, kneeling beside Erik and touching his face with both hands. The cut in his forehead was still bleeding and his entire face felt as if he'd walked face-first into a wall. Which wasn't that far from the truth. His chest ached as well from the kick to his ribs, and Erik couldn't help but wonder if he had any broken bones. 

The inspection of his injuries was carried out in an impersonal, matter-of-factly fashion. Erik was asked to follow his cellmate's finger with his eyes, and Lecter appeared pleased when he passed the test. The practiced ease with which the doctor carried out the examination made the mutant realize something, and he cursed his own perceived slowness for not having put two and two together sooner. Doctor Hannibal Lecter was actually a doctor. Of medicine. 

"You're a medical doctor," he said shakily, shivering now that the immediate shock had passed and thus also the rush of adrenaline. 

Hannibal smiled. "How very astute. You were most fortunate, Erik. You have no broken bones and no concussion. You likely do not have any internal hemorrhaging, but we must remain attentive to symptoms for the upcoming couple of days. How are you feeling?"

"I was beat up and almost raped by a Nazi. I've been better."

"Of course you have been." Lecter smirked and glanced toward the body now lying in a heap a few feet to their left. A large pool of blood was spreading underneath it now that the water had been turned off. Erik wondered if the man was even alive anymore, and if he was, how long he would remain so. The facial wound was not lethal in itself, but it had resulted in some extensive blood-loss. 

Once again, Hannibal predicted his thought process. "He's not dead, merely unconscious," the doctor said. "He'll live."

Cold rage welled up inside Erik, and he felt a sudden impulse to finish what his cellmate had started. The man was a rapist and a Nazi: two lowlife archetypes embodied in one single individual, and he was convinced no one would shed any tears for this loathsome figure if he happened to die.

"You should kill him," Erik said. 

Lecter tilted his head to the side and gave the mutant an odd look that was impossible to decipher. "He's learned his lesson," he said. 

"Then I'll do it myself!" The impulsiveness he had worked years to rein in resurfaced, and Erik did not doubt that he would have gone through with it had Lecter not stopped him. 

"You mustn't do that," the doctor warned.

"He was going to kill me! It would be self-defense!"

Hannibal's grip on Erik's forearms hardened. "No, Erik. No one would believe you."

"I don't care!"

"I do." The doctor's maroon eyes bored into Erik. The look in them was frighteningly intense and sparkling with intelligence… as well as something else he had no name for. "That…" Hannibal slowly explained, "…has my modus operandi all over it. If they discover I killed another man, I will go into Solitary indefinitely. And I can't protect you from there."

The mutant wanted to argue, but everything the psychopathic madman said made sense, from a bizarrely rational point of view. And whether he liked it or not, Erik was in dire need of protection, and Hannibal Lecter was undoubtedly his best chance of getting it. He had no choice but to agree… for now.

"Why are you helping me?" he asked suspiciously. 

"Would you prefer I didn't?" Lecter asked in return. He sounded more curious than offended.

Erik shook his head. "No, but you aren't taking care of me from the goodness of your heart. You expect something in return." 

He scowled, trying to think of what he had to offer that was worth anything in a place like this. "Favors" in a penitentiary typically included drugs, cash, exchange of privileges, or sexual services. He had no drugs or cash (not that Lecter was likely to pay much attention to such short-term worldly pleasures anyway) and he had not been at the asylum long enough to have earned any privileges. In any case, he doubted he could have had them transferred onto Hannibal Lecter. That left the most obvious option. 

"You might as well tell me what. Do you want sex?" 

"How presumptuous, Erik." Lecter shook his head. "No, I don't want sexual favors from you."

"Everyone wants something," Erik insisted. "Even you."

"How right you are." The monster smiled a predatory smile, and Erik could see that there were still blood and tissue remains stuck on some of his teeth. "I'll let you know in due time, dear one. Till then, it will be in your own best interest to do exactly as I tell you."

Lecter stood up and casually went to dry himself off with a towel. Erik stood up on trembling legs, trying not to make it terribly obvious that he was sticking by his "protector". He resisted the impulse to kick the unconscious Nazi bastard lying naked on the shower room floor, hesitating only because of the absolute agony his body was in. The last thing he needed now was to slip and hurt himself even more. 

"The man who attacked me," Erik said while they dressed. "He will try again." It was a statement rather than a question, and he knew the white supremacist would want revenge on Hannibal as well for the destruction of his face. 

"Yes, of course," the doctor said. "You'll just have to be ready next time, won't you?"

_TBC..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FBI special agent Jack Crawford interrogates Erik.

_Chapter 4_

Both Erik and Hannibal were to be questioned - separately - about the attack on the neo-Nazi in the showers, but they had quickly agreed to keep mum on the subject and not admit to anything. Without proof there was not much the law enforcement could do to exact punishment, and Erik knew, even after only knowing the man for a week, that Hannibal Lecter would not break during interrogation. Just getting him to sweat would be like pressing blood out of a rock. 

A skilled liar and an even more skilled manipulator, the doctor had most of the hospital staff wrapped around his little finger without them even realizing it. It occurred to Erik that it might have been quite something to know Hannibal outside the walls of the asylum. The man, despite being obviously pathological, had most definitely made an invaluable asset to his Brotherhood, if only for his uncanny ability to read people. 

When Erik was questioned about the attack, he saw no choice but to stick to the script recited to him by Doctor Lecter. He'd been told it was fail-safe, simplistic though it was, and Lecter had not yet given Erik a reason to question his rational faculties. He might be insane, but he was certainly not _crazy_. 

"It doesn't matter if they believe you or not," Hannibal had said. "What matters is what they can prove. Unless they catch you with a lie, there's nothing to refute our version of the events."

The man questioning Erik turned out to be one of the Feds. He introduced himself as Special Agent Jack Crawford, and Erik would have wanted to ask him why the FBI took such an interest in what was assumed to be nothing but an inmate altercation in a mental hospital, but he'd received strict orders from Lecter not deviate from the script for any reason whatsoever, and he did not want to screw this up. 

Crawford was a man Erik's own age, and even though he exuded an aura of fierce intellect and unwavering authority, he did not look healthy at all. The big, dark bags under his eyes and bloodshot eye-whites suggested too little sleep and too much drink as of late. 

_Wonder why_ , the mutant reflected. 

"Lensherr, Erik M.", Crawford said, looking at the seated inmate. He spoke slowly, his voice deep and resonant. Erik could tell very quickly that this man had not reached his position within the law enforcement by foul play and connections: he had earned it through hard work and an unflinching focus. He would be a tough nut to crack. 

"Mind telling me what happened?" Crawford asked, sitting down opposite Erik at the table in the interrogation room. The mutant still wore his leg irons, but he'd been deemed harmless enough not to require handcuffs. 

Erik shrugged. "I'm afraid I can't help you with that," he said. "I know nothing about the incident you're talking about."

"You're telling me you had nothing to do with the attempted murder of a Mr. Jesse Durham in the shower room for block B?" Crawford's patience was wearing thin, that much was obvious. 

"That's right," Erik said. Crawford didn't believe him, of course, but he did not need to lie _convincingly_ , after all. 

"I see. How did you acquire those bruises, Mr. Lensherr?" 

"Doctor Lecter beat me," Erik said. It was what they had agreed to tell the interrogators. He must not deviate from it. 

"For what reason?"

"I didn't follow his rules."

"And where did this happen?"

"In the showers. We were the only two present at the time. We have reconciled since then." 

Crawford's face was a veritable storm cloud, and Erik knew this was because without a confession, the man had nothing on either of them. Parker, the nurse on duty, must have refrained from making a statement, as leaving a patient unsupervised and vulnerable to attacks from fellow patients was a clear breach of protocol and something that could cost him his job if exposed. Lecter's plan had worked. The authorities could not pin this on them. 

"Think very carefully before you answer, Mr. Lensherr," Crawford said, his voice low and dangerous. He pushed his glasses up toward the bridge of his nose. "Do you have anything to add to this?"

"No," Erik replied. "If that's all, I'd like to go back to my cell."

For a moment Crawford said nothing, and Erik could see the wheels turning inside his head, trying to figure out the best course of action to make him talk. Intimidation had not worked, and so Crawford made a visible decision to change tactics. The transfer from "bad cop" to "good cop" was tangible and so obvious is was almost laughable. Erik knew or rather predicted that the federal agent would try to broker a deal with him to get what he wanted. Crawford leaned forward in an attempt to establish trust between himself and the mutant. 

"I don't know why you're covering for Hannibal Lecter, but you ought to know he's not your friend. He is an extremely dangerous, manipulative psychopath with a god-complex, and he won't hesitate to sacrifice you if he can benefit from it. Do not trust him, Mr. Lensherr. I beg you. It won't end well… for you."

"Why should I trust _you_?" Erik retorted.

"I could work something out with Chilton," Crawford said. "To get you away from him."

"Doctor Lecter has been nothing but good to me, but that is irrelevant. I'm not covering for him, because there is nothing _to_ cover."

Crawford was practically gritting his teeth, and Erik sensed he was on the verge of giving up. For now. The pent up frustration he oozed made Erik suspect that Crawford had had previous dealings with Lecter and would have loved to see the doctor punished. He was tempted to ask Crawford what Lecter had been convicted of and why he'd been sent to the Baltimore State Forensic Hospital, but Crawford was an intelligent man, and Erik did not want to risk revealing something that could give the federal agent an edge. 

"Let me know if you change your mind," Crawford said with a stony expression, after which he rapped his knuckles against the door and asked to be let out. The orderly on duty unfastened the leg irons restraining Erik to the chair and proceeded to escort the mutant back to his cell. Part of him was afraid of what might come, but another, mostly unconscious part, wanted Hannibal Lecter to tell him he did well. 

TBC...


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik and Hannibal have a heartfelt talk and get to know one another better.

_Chapter 5_

They had given Erik aspirin for the pain, and it did little else but take the edge off. He would have preferred something stronger, like codeine… His face was swollen and throbbed with each heart beat, and breathing was made a grim ordeal thanks to the damage to his ribs. Nothing broken, Doctor Lecter said, but that did not rule out cracked… 

Hannibal did not ask how the interrogation went. He barely even acknowledged his cellmate after Erik was brought back to their joint cell, and the mutant couldn't help feeling a pang of disappointment. He knew it was insane and berated himself for his feelings. It should not matter to him what this madman - this _human_ \- thought of him. And yet it did. It both disturbed and bothered the mutant in a way he could not put into words. He had never sought approval from anybody in his life, not even… not even Charles. 

He tried to tell himself that it was situational, that he had no other choice in a place like this. It was easy enough to rationalize his feelings when the circumstances were so extreme. 

Erik did not try to engage Hannibal in conversation in spite of increasing boredom and burning curiosity regarding the doctor's misdeeds. If Lecter did not feel like speaking, he simply refrained from answering altogether; Erik had noticed this when nurses and orderlies other than Barney had tried to address him. Perhaps Hannibal did not deem them worthy of his attention, although the mutant was surprised his cellmate got away with such behavior. 

That night, Erik found it even more difficult than usual to sleep. Miggs was being unusually quiet for once (perhaps the poor sod had been artificially sedated?) but the burns and aches all over his body allowed him no rest. Climbing to the top bunk caused him to gasp and made sweat break out on his forehead, but he stubbornly refused to cry out, not wanting to appear weak before the doctor. There was little doubt that Hannibal had noticed despite Erik's valiant attempts to conceal his pain, however. 

Barney sometimes allowed Doctor Lecter to keep the lights on in his cell even though it was technically against the rules, but Barney was not on duty tonight, and the nurse present had the lights turned off at 10 PM in the whole block. 

Erik lay on his cot, staring blankly into the brick wall. After a while his eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough that he could see blurred outlines of walls and furniture, but not much else. No details, no colors. The lights would not come back on until 8 AM the following morning. What was he supposed to do until then? Staring at a wall for ten hours straight counting cracks did not sound very appealing. 

He was not worried about disturbing Lecter's sleep. The man appeared to have no trouble sleeping even when Miggs was causing enough racket to disturb the entire block, so it was unlikely that Erik's labored breathing would keep him awake. Erik deeply envied his ability to shut out is physical surroundings. If he ever mustered up the courage, he might even ask his cellmate how he did it. It might turn out to be a useful tool in certain circumstances. 

A few hours into the night, and Erik was still as wakeful as ever. Unfortunately his arm was falling asleep from his lying in one position for too long, and he made the (perhaps foolish) decision to turn over. The pain shot out through his back and torso with such overwhelming power that he failed to prevent a high, piercing cry from escaping his lips. The sound of it reverberated in the otherwise silent corridor, and for a few seconds Erik held his breath, expecting the worst. Miggs would undoubtedly be roused, and his cellmate might punish him for causing a ruckus. 

The moments after the cry were so silent that Erik could hear the faint sound of his own blinking. Then he heard the unmistakable noise of Lecter sitting up on the bunk below, and Erik's pulse spiked from fear. Was he next in line to have his face ripped apart by the madman's teeth?

There was the soft rustle of fabric when Lecter threw his sheets aside and stood up, and Erik could see the shadowy contours of him when the doctor peeked at him over the edge of the bunk. Though Erik could not make out the other man's eyes or identify any features whatsoever in the darkness, he had an eerie feeling that Lecter could see him just fine. It was ridiculous, of course: human eyes were not made for seeing clearly in total darkness, unless the person was a mutant whose power included night vision. And still…

Erik did not discern the limb moving toward him, and therefore he jerked violently when Hannibal's hand touched his forearm. He managed to suppress another cry, however, and quickly composed himself. Lecter was holding something in his hand; something he was offering to Erik. 

Lack of vision notwithstanding, the mutant was quickly able to identify what his cellmate had given him. They were tablets, two of them, grainy and rough. Erik felt both grateful and simultaneously disgusted.

"I don't want drugs," he said, his voice strained and tense. 

"You're in a lot of pain," Hannibal answered plainly. "These will help."

"What is it?"

"Vicodin. I know they didn't give you anything remotely helpful at the dispensary."

Erik felt his resolve crumbling. He had meticulously avoided narcotics all his life in fear of developing an addiction, but what reason did he have to stick to it now? Besides, it would just be a one-time thing. Nothing at all to worry about. 

He swallowed the tablets with some water from their ridiculously small sink, kindly handed to him in a plastic cup so that he didn't have to move and aggravate his injuries. At least half an hour would pass before the drugs could be expected to kick in, and Erik could hardly wait. 

"Where did you get them?" Erik asked, trying to settle into a somewhat comfortable position. It was difficult finding one with only a single pillow at his disposal, but what was there to be done about it?

"At the dispensary. It's almost too easy to pocket things. The nurses don't pay attention," Hannibal explained, speaking even more quietly than usual so as not to disturb their neighbors, but his intense contempt of the asylum staff shone like a beacon. "The doctor even less so. He's not even trying half of the time and often misdiagnoses conditions."

"What if you're caught?" Erik pointed out. "They'll start searching you every time you leave your cell. It won't be pretty."

Lecter produced a dry little scoff. "I've been here six years, and they have yet to catch me. They're quite a clueless bunch, you see."

Erik decided to go out on a limb and ask the question he had been wanting to ask since he met the doctor. Since they were on topic now, this was as good a time as any, and he could not dance around the subject forever if they were to get anywhere. Erik had never been particularly good at stalling or playing social games, and he had a feeling the doctor valued frankness above most other character traits. 

"Why are you here?" 

Lecter did not answer outright, and during the seconds that followed his question, Erik believed he would not receive a reply in the first place. Then his cellmate spoke up.

"If I tell you, will you tell me about that number tattooed on your forearm?"

Erik knew he should have expected Hannibal Lecter to demand something in return, but for some reason, he had not counted on being asked a question like that. He remembered Crawford's warning plea about not trusting Lecter or making the mistake to believe that he was a friend, but Crawford, like everyone else, had his own personal agenda for giving information, and Erik had learned long ago not to trust anyone who claimed to represent the government. For now Hannibal seemed like the safer choice as far as trust was concerned. 

"I think someone of your astute intellect can figure it out." He made an effort to sound as non-confrontational as possible and absolutely devoid of sarcasm. It did not quite come out as he'd wanted it to, but the words lacked his normally present scathing bite. 

"Regardless, Erik, I'd like you to tell me," Hannibal said, and to Erik's surprise, the doctor was suddenly climbing the steps up to the top bunk. 

"Wait! What…?"

"May I sit beside you?"

Though the other's close proximity unnerved him, Erik thought it would be rude to deny the request and made a motion meant to represent a shrug. Hannibal took a seat on the foot end of the mattress, and though the mutant still could not see him clearly, he could feel the heat radiating from Lecter's body. 

"Don't be afraid, Erik. I'm not going to sodomize you," the doctor said, voice still just as dry. 

"I didn't think you were," Erik shot back, perhaps a bit too defensively. Hannibal had made it clear that he was not interested in sexual favors, and though it was mostly a relief, Erik would have liked to know what it was he wanted in exchange for "protection". A private person by any standards, the mutant did not relish the idea of having his brain picked at, least of all by a clinically insane genius with psychology as his field of expertise. In comparison, sex would have been a much simpler trade.

"Now then," Hannibal said, casually, as if they were discussing horticulture or something equally boring. "Tell me, Erik, about those numbers on your arm."

"Why?"

"You asked me a question, and it's only fair that you give little something in return if you want an answer, hmm?"

"I'd really rather not talk about that."

"Quid pro quo, Erik. You tell me things, I tell you things. Yes or no?"

Erik lay absolutely still in the dark, his face a stiff mask of pain, both physical and emotional. He hated being reminded of his past, and he knew that Hannibal knew, oh yes, the sick sadistic bastard was probably getting off on witnessing the angst it caused him to talk about the numbers and the history behind them, and he was enjoying it to the fullest.

"No, it does not excite me," the other man said plainly. "But there are disadvantages to being incarcerated, and you are the first interesting person I have met here in a long time. Please indulge me. Don't lie, or I'll know."

Erik wanted to ask if sharing the information would earn him a truthful and extensive answer to his own question, but asking the doctor if he was a liar was most likely going to cause offense, so Erik kept his mouth shut. He decided to take the gamble. 

"I was born in Germany before the war broke out. When the Nazis started herding Jews into ghettos, my family and I fled to Poland. In 1944 we ran out of luck. Auschwitz was next."

"What happened to your family, Erik?"

"They died."

"Outright?"

Erik had to struggle to keep his voice somewhat steady. He must not show weakness to this man. He must not. He had been through worse. He could do this.

"I only found out later what happened to my father. He froze to death in the winter of '44. My mother… she was shot to death before my eyes."

"What then, Erik?"

"I had no one. I was ten years old. They would have killed me too unless…"

"They kept you alive to experiment on you, didn't they? Because of what you could do?"

"Yes." 

Erik did not feel as alienated as he had expected. In some odd, conflicting way, it felt as if Hannibal Lecter could relate to him on a very basic level, almost like he could empathize with the mutant and share his pain. No, he reminded himself. Do not confuse understanding with empathy. It was hard to take in that someone could understand you without having your best interests at heart, but it was the only way he could allow himself to view Lecter at present. 

"Thank you, Erik. I appreciate your candor," the psychiatrist said, and Erik heard him take a deep breath.

"Quid pro quo, Hannibal. Your turn."

Erik did not possess Hannibal's incredible talent to spot lies, but he had no reason to think the doctor was deceiving him when he told about his crimes. Hannibal Lecter was a serial killer convicted of nine accounts of first degree murder. Erik noted with some distress that his cellmate mentioned nine murders that he'd been convicted of in court, not how many he had actually committed, and the mutant estimated the number to be much higher. Hannibal remained strangely secretive about his methods, but Erik suspected him to use weapons that allowed him to connect to his victims in a visceral, intimate way; possibly knives or other cutting tools. The impersonal nature of a handgun likely held little appeal for the doctor. 

It was difficult to wrap one's mind around how such a brilliant man could be so blatantly… _destructive_ (evil was a concept Erik had largely given up on and abandoned in favor of behaviorism) but he feared that if he began to analyze his cellmate's pathology, he'd end up lost with no one to guide him out of the treacherous waters that was Hannibal Lecter's psyche. 

After a long wait, Erik could feel the drugs starting to kick in. A pleasant, warm, tingling haze typical of opiates slowly spread throughout his body, and while it did not make him completely pain-free, it at least made his current condition bearable. Senses dulled by the chemical compound that was codeine, Erik let loose a small sigh of relief. 

Hannibal, still sitting at the foot of the bed like an immobile shadow, watched as his cellmate slipped into a light but nonetheless well-earned slumber, and just as the mutant entered the borderland between sleep and wakefulness, he mouthed four small words, certain that Erik registered them at the time but was unlikely to remember in the morning. 

"You did well, Erik."

TBC...


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal received a lot of mail, Erik none at all. Where's the fairness in that?

_Chapter 6_

Hannibal received lots of mail, while Erik himself received practically none. No, that wasn't true. Scrap "practically". It both disappointed and perturbed the mutant that none of his former associates even bothered to write to him. Did he mean so little to them, to their _cause_ , that he had already been forgotten? He had been the one to keep them together, to provide focus, to hone their various skills… 

It hurt the most that he had not even heard from Raven. She had sworn absolute devotion to him, to the quest for mutant freedom, and she had been there to warm his bed during cold and lonely nights. He knew that she had loved him even though he could never go as far as to reciprocate that feeling. Erik had told her the truth, not wanting to appear as if he was taking advantage of her emotions for selfish reasons, and she had accepted, demanding nothing in return for the occasional physical exchange of affection. Their shared goals and worldview was enough to forge an ever-lasting bond. Romantic love was not even needed in the equation.

Erik knew he shouldn't have expected to hear from Charles, but a (mostly buried) part of his consciousness could not keep from hoping… Hope was said to be the last to abandon a human mind. Erik personally considered it a crock of shit. A few years in a place like this, and all hope was bound to be gone. It literally gave bereavement a name. 

As on most other days, Barney delivered Hannibal's stack of mail around lunchtime, and like all other days, he had nothing for Erik. The moment, however short, of hopeful expectation was always the worst, only to meet Barney's sympathetic, almost apologetic gaze, telling him he had received no mail. 

The doctor casually eyed through his various letters and set some he deemed unimportant aside. Erik sighed heavily and tried to focus on the book Hannibal had lent him: it was a copy of George Orwell's _1984_ , one of few English titles in Hannibal's collection. Granted Erik had already read it, but it was a long time ago, and he didn't mind refreshing his memory a bit. Not that he wouldn't have preferred reading a letter written to him, even if it happened to be a declaration of love from a pathological female fan. Apparently Charles Manson (still!) got a lot of those. 

Hannibal chuckled, clearly amused at Erik's palpable disappointment. "Expecting a letter from a certain _someone_ , are you?" he asked. 

"Not quite," the mutant replied curtly. He hoped his tone made it clear he didn't want to discuss it without being downright rude. 

Lecter put his stack of mail down on the miniscule desk and turned to look at the mutant lying on the bunk that was actually his to begin with. Due to the injuries Erik sustained in the shower room attack and the subsequent pain it caused him to climb the steps, Hannibal had agreed to swap bunks with him for an indefinite time period. A week and a half had passed since then, and Erik was probably pain-free enough to trade places with him again. 

"Much of my correspondence involve psychology students asking me questions they want me to answer," Hannibal explained. "Since things here tend to get quite dull, I'm humoring them."

Erik put down the copy of the novel - paperback edition - and turned his undivided attention to the conversation, his interest piqued. "What kind of questions do they ask you?" 

What he wanted to know was, of course, whether or not Hannibal discussed his own abnormal psychopathology with his pen pals, but such he wasn't sure if the doctor would appreciate such a direct question. 

"Anything and everything," Lecter said cryptically. "I don't reply to all of them, or I would be spending all my time writing letters. The obviously stupid and unoriginal ones go straight into the trash." He picked up one letter from the stack he kept on his desk, seemingly at random, and began to cite the contents. "A Miss Angela Bennett, psychology major, wants to know if the Dark Triad can be spotted in a person's childhood or early adolescence and measures taken to prevent the evolvement into full-blow psychopathy."

"The Dark Triad?" Erik inquired, intrigued. He was not all that familiar with specialist language used in psychology and psychiatry, and that was a particular term he did not know the meaning of. 

"A group of personality traits associated with abnormal emotional and behavioral development: narcissism, Machiavellianism, and anti-social characteristics. These traits appear in adolescence, usually as a response to severe childhood disturbances, but sometimes for no apparent outside reason."

"Interesting." Erik shifted into a more relaxed position, resting his head against the palm of his hand. "Are you going to answer Miss Bennett's question?"

"Yes."

"What will you tell her?"

"I am not supposed to give away sensitive information to a third party," Hannibal said, a teasing glint in his eyes. "I like your inquisitiveness, Erik. It must have served you well in life."

The mutant snorted. "Until recently, perhaps."

When Lecter spoke again, the contempt in his voice was impossible to miss. "The academic world does not deserve much credit, I can assure you of that. What is your formal education, Erik?"

"I have a Master's degree in engineering." That much was true. Charles Xavier had paid for his tuition out of his own, not insubstantial, pocket, but he was not going to tell Hannibal that. 

"I see. After I moved to America, I myself spent a year teaching at Johns Hopkins. It was the inarguably dullest job I've ever had to do. Tedious. Very tedious."

He could see why someone of Hannibal's character was poorly suited for academic pursuits. Erik made a mental note to remind himself to ask on a later occasion where the doctor was originally from. Though he considered himself good at accents, Hannibal Lecter had an accent Erik could not place. It was also impossible to figure out what his native language was. At times, the mutant thought he could detect just the slightest hint of a French lilt in the doctor's pronunciation, but that might also be his own imagination. Although quite a few of the titles Hannibal owned were written in French… 

"I also regularly submit articles for publication in psychiatric journals," Hannibal said. "Last month _American Journal of Psychiatry_ published a monograph of mine on surgical addiction. It garnered excellent reviews."

That notable scientific journals chose to publish the works of a murder-convicted mental patient, even though the patient in question was an experienced clinical psychiatrist, sounded too fantastical to be taken at face value. At the same time, Erik did not believe that his cellmate would lie to him about something so profound. While there was absolutely no doubt that Hannibal was a narcissist with a larger-than-life ego, his list of merits spoke for itself. The man was a genius. 

Suddenly it occurred to the mutant that his cellmate's area of expertise coincided with that of Charles. He knew the telepath subscribed to many scientific journals to keep himself updated on the recent discoveries and had, in fact, published a fair share of articles of his own in the fields of genetic research and psychology. If he had no new findings of his own to contribute, Erik knew Charles also selected other articles for peer review on a regular basis. Was it possible that Hannibal Lecter was familiar with his… former best friend? Erik thought back on that (all too brief) time when Charles and he had been more than friends, but that was not something he would reveal to Lecter. In fact, he had to tread very carefully if he was to bring up Charles in the first place. Erik's curiosity, however, was bound to get the better of him. 'More curious than cautious'; wasn't that what Charles had said that one time, shortly after they met?

He thought the words through in his head at least twice before speaking them, making his best effort to sound relaxed.

"Are you familiar with the works of Professor Charles Xavier?"

The response he received, wordless at first, was enough to tell Erik that Hannibal was indeed familiar with the name. The doctor's hand stilled and he straightened, momentarily distracted from his thoughts.

"I reviewed Xavier's publication on right contra left-sided facial displays. First-rate, if I may say so myself."

Erik had not expected Lecter to be favorably disposed toward anyone in the same field, as he clearly considered himself above them all. The fact that Charles' work seemed to have impressed him enough to make him give positive reviews was nothing short of miraculous. Erik tried to contain his curiosity, but he ought to have known that it was impossible to keep anything from someone as perceptive as Hannibal. The man could probably smell his excitement. He could smell everything.

"Tell me, have you ever met Cha--Professor Xavier? He's often hired by universities to give lectures."

Hannibal abandoned the letter entirely and turned to give Erik his full, undivided attention. He was smiling, and his voice was soft and pleasant. "No, Erik, I've never had the pleasure. But you have, haven't you? I believe you know Professor Xavier quite intimately."

Erik shrugged, trying to appear detached but failing miserably, of course. "We've had dealings in the past," he said. 

"Oh yes, and you'd prefer if it wasn't merely a thing of the past, isn't that so, Erik? Your eyes sparkle like cheap birth-stones when you speak of him, all surface shine, but there's a mountain of hurt underneath, unpolished and rough. What happened between you two? Did he break your heart? Is that the reason for your conflicting emotions regarding this man?"

"Charles Xavier is a very compassionate and kind man. I'll forever be indebted to him," Erik said, hoping that Lecter would settle for the answer and not try to wheedle anymore information out of him. He was out of his depth and sorely regretted bringing up the topic of Charles to his cellmate. What had he been thinking? 

Erik should have known it would not be enough for the doctor, that he would not simply let it slide. Now he had to pay the price.

"Is he like you, Erik?" Hannibal asked, leaving the mutant to figure out for himself what the question was really about. 

"What? A homosexual?" He heard the resentment in his own voice and was slightly taken aback by it.

"No, that is incidental. While there's no doubt that the Professor is as queer as a three-dollar bill, that is of no interest to me. I'd much rather know why he took such an interest in you. While you were no doubt very handsome in your youth, Erik, that was not Xavier's sole reason for taking an interest in you. You're quite clever, smarter than most, but again, you're not on his level, so it's unlikely that you met him through work. He's a known trust fund brat; the Xaviers are 'Old Money', as I believe it's called, so it's highly unlikely that they would have a low-class Jew in their social circles. That leaves one option that connects you: he's like you. He can do things. You're a metalbender; what's his ability? Can he move things with his mind?"

Erik's mouth had become very dry, and he swallowed multiple times to restore the moisture to it. 

He must not give away the fact that Charles was a telepath. It might prove detrimental to their cause, and perhaps even to their kind as a whole, if that piece of information found its way to the public. At the moment he was too concerned with not giving away anymore vital clues to a psychopathic madman to be properly offended at some of the things Hannibal had said about him; things that, despite their unflattering nature, were mostly all true. He could not deny anything without making himself a liar. 

"Yes, we're both mutants," Erik said after careful consideration. "I owe a lot to him, but our irreconcilable values will always keep us apart." He was not going to let Lecter goad him into a rage. Never.

The doctor chuckled, visibly pleased with himself. Erik felt a momentary impulse to slap that self-congratulatory look from his face. 

"You're quite tough, aren't you, Erik?"

"If I wasn't, I wouldn't be alive now."

"Of course." Hannibal got back to working on his letter, right side facing Erik, who continued lying on his back on the lower bunk. 

A few minutes of silence passed, and Erik had expected the conversation to be over, and just as he began to relax, the doctor spoke up.

"I was wrong," he said. "Xavier didn't break your heart. You broke his."

TBC...


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik finds out something new and disturbing about his cellmate from another patient.

_Chapter 7_

After a month at the asylum and one hour of "recreational time" each day, exclusively spent on solitary activities, Erik received the news that he was allowed to join the other patients in the canteen for his meals. The mutant was exhilarated but also terrified. He had hardly seen any of his fellow patients besides the occasional glimpse into the cells neighboring his and Hannibal's, and what he'd seen did not make him wish for further interaction. 

Still… Not everyone could be as disturbed as Miggs and Sammy. He shuddered to think if Durham, the neo-Nazi, might have had some likeminded "pals" amongst the other inmates that would want to avenge their mutilated comrade. Hannibal had, due to too many inmate altercations, been prohibited from entering the canteen, so Erik would be on his own. It was not an encouraging thought. Without his "protector", he was easy prey, no matter how much he wanted to deny it. 

Erik was also well aware that he could not hide the rest of his sentence ( _forever_ , he reminded himself) in his cell. Sooner or later he had to take the step and at least make an effort to acclimatize, to get to know more people than Barney and Hannibal. Mostly extraverted by nature despite his fondness for introspection, the mutant realized he missed the stimulation group activities had to offer. 

Barney seemed to sense his conflicting emotions and tried to offer some words of encouragement during the brief walk to the commons. 

"You'll do fine, Erik," the big nurse said. "Many of them are too drugged to pose any real threat anyhow. Just keep your head high and try not to start anything. If someone taunts you, let it pass. It's not worth it, trust me."

Erik wholeheartedly agreed; he would be truly relieved - and pleasantly surprised - if deflecting taunts was all he had to put up with. He could live with being called "mutie", "kike", "freak", or any other demeaning name; only idiots and truly desperate folks resorted to puerile name-calling, and in a place like this, one could be expected to find plenty of both. He wondered what the other inmates had called Hannibal, and what the good doctor had done to have been permanently barred from the canteen. Perhaps he'd do well to remind them if things got out of hand. 

"Hey, listen…" Barney suddenly appeared abashed for no apparent reason, and Erik was sure he saw a blush on the man's broad, brown face, but with Barney's skin tone, it was difficult to tell for sure. "How's Doctor Lecter been treatin' you?"

"We've managed to stay on reasonably good terms," Erik said. He did not care to mention that sometimes Hannibal did not speak for days and practically ignored his presence in the cell. Barney had worked in the asylum long enough to be familiar with the doctor's code of conduct, and Erik suspected the question was asked for a different reason altogether. 

"You could request a transfer," Barney suggested tentatively. "Not sure if Chilton would agree, but--"

"That's not necessary at this time," Erik broke in, appreciating the nurse's concern for him, misdirected though it was. He couldn't remember when he'd last seen a _human_ show genuine concern for him or any other mutant. Humans were inherently selfish by nature and suspicious of those that did not fit into their norms. Erik had been an outsider his whole life and his trust was hard-earned. "I am quite happy with the current arrangement."

"You would tell me, though, if you… wanted out?" Barney's voice was still hesitant, and Erik could tell the nurse was nervous about someone overhearing their conversation. 

"What are my options, Barney? Bunking with Miggs?"

"Yeah…" The big man did not elaborate on whatever he'd had in mind to say, and Erik didn't ask. Instead he let Barney continue on a totally unrelated subject… or so it seemed at first. 

"Doctor Lecter is the smartest man I've ever met," he said. "I got my LPN three years ago, and he helped me study for the exams. Besides working here as an orderly, I worked nights as a morgue attendant to pay for my education. Doctor Lecter helped me study. Free of charge. And by that I mean he really didn't demand anything in return, no favors, no special treatment, other than asking that I be frank with him. I thought I could do that. He's disarming that way. But you must never forget what he is."

"And what is that?" Erik asked. He wondered if Chilton would approve of Barney having this conversation with him. 

"There's no name for what he is. Not a formal one, anyway. But I've seen what he's capable of." Barney nodded gravely. "Firsthand."

"What are you referring to?"

The nurse shook his head, looking as if he was internally berating himself for revealing too much information. He'd been way out of line, even suggesting…

"What?!" Erik demanded, grabbing the other's white-clad forearm which was, on estimate, like two of his. Barney promptly stopped, but he made no motion to restrain the mutant. Erik looked up at Barney imploringly. 

"Look, forget I said anything," Barney murmured, avoiding direct eye contact, which was unusual for him. They were almost at the canteen anyway, which signaled the end of this conversation. Erik decided not to push it. He was lucky to have Barney on his side, and he couldn't risk doing - or saying - anything that might alienate him. 

"I've got rounds to do," Barney hastily explained, clearly looking for an excuse to depart. "Lunchtime's forty-five minutes. When it's over, you'll be escorted back to your cell. There's always someone watching. Don't hesitate to call out if someone's… bothering you."

With that the big nurse left, and Erik was left alone to fend for himself. The canteen was the same dull white colors as the rest of the asylum - that he'd seen, anyway - and the furnishing was Spartan, to say the least. Tables and stools in stainless steel secured to the floor, likely to prevent inmates from hurling them at each other or at the guards in the case of a fight. It was a most depressing sight. 

Shielded from direct inmate contact by a thick pane of acrylic glass was a cook, a heavyset middle-aged woman, dressed in kitchen whites, ready to smack up portions of whatever disgusting gruel the kitchen planned on serving the patients for today's lunch. Ignoring the looks he received from the men already pleasant, Erik got himself a tray and went to stand in the line to be served. 

He was to push the tray in through a small crack at the bottom of the plexi glass window, maybe two inches in height, and have it returned by the cook once she had filled his plate. Apart from the main course, the inmates were given an apple and a small pack of juice. No glasses were allowed, only plastic cups, and the utensils were all plastic as well. Erik wondered if they'd had many incidents happen, considering their lack of trust in the inmates. 

As always, the food was unappetizing if not downright inedible, but the mutant knew it was either that or nothing, so he might as well eat. If he didn't eat, he'd only fade so much quicker. 

Carrying his tray, Erik looked around for a place to sit. There were plenty of unoccupied seats, but he knew the risks of imposing on an individual or a group that did not welcome his presence, so he had to tread carefully to avoid conflict. The tables had room for eight people, four on either side, and he figured his best bet was a table that was largely unoccupied. A small, skinny man was sitting by himself at one of the tables and steadily shoveling the pulp masquerading as mashed potatoes and meat stew into his mouth. He did not look for eye contact with any of the other patients and it was obvious he wasn't part of any group affiliation. This was his safest bet, Erik decided.

He walked over to the table, straight-backed and impassive. "Mind if I sit here?" he asked. 

The little man twitched at being addressed, and Erik could tell he was of a nervous disposition. Then he unexpectedly grinned and made a welcoming gesture with his unoccupied hand.

"Sure, man. Go ahead." The grin turned into an audible chuckle when Erik had seated himself, and there was childish excitement in the man's eyes. "You're Magneto, right? That mutant dude who can control metal? I saw you on the news. Too bad you got caught. I was rooting for you."

Erik couldn't help smiling himself. "Thank you. Just Erik nowadays," he said. 

"I'm Alan. Nice to meet you." Alan extended his hand across the table, and they shook. The little man's fingers felt frail in Erik's grasp, almost birdlike. He couldn't picture Alan being here for having committed a violent crime; in fact he was more likely to have been the victim of one. Then again, appearances could be deceiving.

"So yeah… I know you're practically a supervillain and all, but I still can't believe they'd put you in with Hannibal the Cannibal," Alan said, shaking his head as he took a crunchy bite out of his apple. 

Erik very nearly choked on his drink and wondered for a split second if he should ask Alan to repeat his words. Some of the juice had gone up his nasal passage and had already begun to sting. He'd probably remain congested for the rest of the day. 

"Hannibal the…?"

Alan looked at him with an expression that was nothing short of horrified. "Jesus, Erik, you don't _know_?! Hannibal "The Cannibal" Lecter; that was not a Freudian slip or anything, your cellmate's an actual cannibal! He's one crazy motherfucker. Killed one of the flautists on the Baltimore Philharmonics Orchestra, chopped him up, and cooked him as some fucked up gourmet meal which he then served to his friends in the orchestra board and other important people. Seriously dude, where've you been for the last ten years? It was on national TV. You been living under a rock, or something?"

Erik wanted to say something, anything, but he found his voice strangely lacking as while his mind processed the news and he cursed himself for not connecting the dots earlier. How could he have been so… blind? Of course the doctor was a cannibal; he had fucking eaten another man's face right before Erik's eyes. Not simply torn it, but eaten it. He was bunking with an actual, real-life cannibal who would most certainly not hesitate to practice his 'exotic' tastes on Erik himself if he felt like it. 

He was fortunate to have had his lunch already, because there was simply no way he could have eaten after this piece of news. 

"I'm sorry, man, but it's not exactly a secret," Alan said sympathetically. "And since you're sharing a cell, well, maybe you should know what he's done."

"This flautist… Was he the only one to be cannibalized?"

"Goodness, no. It's the only _confirmed_ case he fed to other people, though. No one knows how many people he's actually killed, how many of his patients he murdered, or how many he persuaded to kill others. The guy used to be some acclaimed shrink with a big psychiatric practice. Hung out with the socialites and bigwigs. Was supposed to be a real charmer, too. I've never met him, thank God, just seen him from a distance. What's he like? I heard he attacked a guy in the showers some weeks ago. Mutilated him. Nothing's been confirmed, but rumor has it you were involved as well."

Erik remembered his cellmate's strict orders not to admit to anything concerning the shower incident with the neo-Nazi, and he was not going to break their agreement now. Especially as he had just found out what could happen to those that crossed Lecter. 

"I had nothing to do with that," he murmured, feeling slightly ill at the thought of returning to his cell where Hannibal Lecter was waiting for him. He only had ten minutes left of his forty-five minute lunch break, and after that he had no choice but to face Lecter. Erik was not so naïve as to think he could keep the recent revelation a secret from Hannibal. The man saw through him like a CAT-scan device; he did it with practically everybody. 

"Still… you've survived him over a month now," Alan said, something akin to admiration in his voice. "His first - and last - cellie only lasted a week."

Erik closed his eyes, listening to the strong thunk-thunk sound of his heart against his ribcage. For feeling like he did right now, his pulse was surprisingly slow. Probably not for long…

A guard's voice on the intercom announced that lunch was over and that the patients were expected to return to their cells, and Erik stood up, determined to face the impending confrontation with as much dignity as he could muster. 

TBC...


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik and Hannibal have their first real argument. Expect some kind of existential debate here, guys.

_Chapter 8_

Erik was escorted back to his cell by a short, round-shouldered orderly named Alonzo. He had wished Barney would accompany him, both for moral support and perhaps even to offer some advice on how to handle the upcoming situation. Barney knew Hannibal better than anyone here in the asylum; better than Erik and certainly better than that pompous imbecile Chilton. It hurt him on some very basic level that Barney might have chosen to avoid him simply because of the awkward circumstances. Then he reminded himself that Barney couldn't possibly know what Alan had told Erik during the lunch break. It didn't matter. The feeling of abandonment stayed. 

Alonzo the orderly did not say a word, and for that, Erik was grateful. There was nothing he hated more than strained small talk. He tried to look for signs of distaste or antipathy on the Hispanic orderly's face, but to his surprise, he found nothing to indicate Alonzo was unsympathetically disposed toward him. He was doing his job, and that was it. Erik had previously been on the mercy of men simply following orders, and it made him livid to think he was in the same position again. He kept swallowing until his throat muscles threatened to spasm and made him stop. 

The cell was empty when Erik and the orderly arrived there. Hannibal was apparently out taking a shower or visiting the library. The doctor was not allowed - even if accompanied by asylum staff - to spend time in the rec room or the canteen with other inmates. Erik didn't think it mattered much to the doctor. Lecter was a true introvert who spent most of his time inside his own head, his inner life rich enough to keep him amused and entertained without much external stimulation. 

Alonzo crossed himself once before leaving, his right hand touching something through the fabric of his uniform shirt, probably a crucifix hidden beneath the clothing. A devout Catholic, then. Erik, though not religious by any means, could understand the appeal of a deity if this was your daily life. 

Hannibal's lunch tray sat on his small table/desk, the food disturbed but mostly uneaten. Erik considered sampling the coffee, as he had not been given any in the commons (probably because it was hot and they feared one patient might throw it on another) but it had become lukewarm and thus even more disgusting. The mutant lay down on his bunk and quietly awaited his cellmate's inevitable return. Hannibal had seemed content to keep the top bunk after Erik's injury, and so they had switched places indefinitely. 

Another half hour passed before the doctor finally came back. His hair was still damp from a shower, and Erik caught a whiff of the fragrant, expensive soap he used in place of the stale, generalized brand provided by the asylum. It smelled of apricots and vanilla; a very pleasant smell, contrasting sharply with Erik's mood and thoughts at the moment. 

"I see you made it back in one piece," Hannibal said, smiling. "Did anyone try to accost you?"

"No."

"Did something else happen?" There the cannibal stood, still with that expectant smile on his face…

"No," Erik replied, not returning the smile. He simultaneously wanted Lecter to both ignore him and get straight to business and ask him what was wrong; that way he wouldn't have to sit on pins and needles for any longer than necessary. 

"That's the first outright lie you've told me," the preternaturally perceptive doctor said, his tone unreadable. "When will you learn that you can't keep anything from me? Even if I couldn't see your face, I'd be able to tell from the smell of your sweat. Trans-3-methyl-2 hexenoic acid. That's the smell of deceit right there."

Erik sighed and resisted the impulse to sniff his armpits to see if what the doctor said was true, then realized it would likely be all the same to him, as he did not possess a heightened sense of smell. He stubbornly refused to look at the man or speak. 

Lecter did not immediately press for answers; instead he puttered around for a while, did some menial chores around the cell, and then sat at his desk to go through today's correspondence. Erik did not believe for one second that he had let the matter go. This was simply a prelude to something greater, a means to bide his time… 

"You are angry with me," the doctor suddenly said; it was a statement rather than a question. "Whatever reason there is for your animosity toward me, it wasn't present this morning, so I take it you uncovered certain details about my past during your trip to the cafeteria."

Erik snorted. "'Cafeteria' is technically Spanish for "coffee house", and that would be a misnomer, considering they don't even serve coffee."

"You're deflecting," Hannibal said. "Don't."

"Why can't you just let me be?"

"Who told you, Erik? Was it Barney? He's a good lad, very bright, but sometimes he takes his "nursing" duties a little too literally. Did he warn you about me?"

"No!" Erik blurted out, a little too quickly, a little too hotly. His instincts to protect a man who had done the same for him were making themselves known, and the rational part of his mind was too slow to rein them in. Hannibal would probably be able to deduce the cause of his emotion, but at this point, Erik was beyond caring. 

The doctor tapped a lead pencil against his small, white teeth and then used it to write down something on a piece of paper. Hannibal's handwriting was a beautiful, classic copperplate. 

"I take it you know about my methods?" he asked conversationally. Now he was sketching something instead, using his left hand, his motions light and fluid. He appeared to possess equal dexterity in both hands; a true ambidextrous individual was a rare find indeed. Erik also figured it made him all the more deadly. 

"I know, yes, that you like to eat people as a recreational activity," he said, slightly surprised at the acidity with which he delivered the words. He had spent more than a month being afraid, and for the first time, the fear was overcome by another emotion: anger. Erik realized he much preferred being angry over being afraid. 

"Recreational?" Hannibal asked as he sketched. He did not _deign_ to look at Erik, and this spurred on the mutant's rage. "You think I did it as a hobby?"

"That hardly matters, does it?"

For the first time during the argument - assuming they were having one, and Erik figured they were - a flicker of irritation passed over Hannibal's features. He put the pencil down and held the drawing at arm's length to study the finished result. It represented a griffin, mighty and powerful with its wings spread out, but instead of the typical eagle's head, it had the face of Erik. He had been drawn to look much younger than his current age, and the mutant was almost shocked to see how well Hannibal had managed to capture his younger self. 

"Cause and effect, Erik," the doctor said patiently. His calm had returned and he was in perfect control of himself. "Causality. What is a deed without the actions that motivated it? Can we be reduced to a set of outer influences? If that is true, then it must be that nothing is anybody's fault. And at the same time, cause is everything. You cannot look at something removed from its circumstances. Can you tell me that your choice to become a terrorist had nothing to do with those numbers tattooed on your arm? Or the death of mommy dearest?"

"Don't you do that. Don't try and make this about me," Erik snapped, knowing that the moment he began shouting, he would definitely lose the argument. And yet, his temper - once again - was bound to get the best of him, as it had done so many times in the past. But he could not stop, not now. "Don't you think you're better than me. You're not. Don't try to bullshit me about some "higher purpose" to justify a bizarre practice like cannibalism. You're a psychopath and a murderer, and you had no reason to eat those people except self-gratification. You know what, Hannibal? You're despicable and you deserve to rot away in this dungeon!"

Erik's anger grew in magnitude with each uttered word, and at the moment he could not bring himself to care that he was indeed being very rude or consider the possible ramification of his actions. The air went out of him when he was finished and realized he had nothing more to say, and all he could do was wait for the cannibal to either let it slide or execute a severe punishment. Erik knew that physically he was no match for the other. Lecter was stronger, faster, more in control of himself, obviously trained in martial arts. But he would fight, tooth and nail, even if it amounted to nothing. 

"You'll need to watch that temper, Erik," the doctor said, no traces of anger - or anything - in his voice. "You carry a lot of anger inside you. What do you do to manage that anger?"

"Use it to focus," Erik said. It was the truth. Part of it, anyway. He was still waiting for the doctor to pounce, gripping the metal bars of his cot until his knuckles whitened. If only he'd had access to his powers…

"Tell me the truth, please," Hannibal said. 

"I am telling you the truth."

"You're skipping around the truth. How about this, Erik: we trade. Quid pro quo, as before. I'll tell you why I dine on my victims, and you will tell me what you do to contain your rage. Fair enough?"

"Yes. You first," Erik said. His rage had died out, but the contempt was still there, inexplicable even to himself. Logically it made no sense to regard Hannibal Lecter any differently now than he had this morning; the man was a pure psychopath and a serial murderer, and he had already been aware of those things. Hannibal was also not a sadist, at least not in the classic sense, as the mutilation and consumption of his victims had been carried out post mortem. And yet the idea of cannibalism stirred up something deep within Erik, a part of himself that rarely ever surfaced from his sub-consciousness. It wasn't tangible enough to be expressed in words. 

"Whenever feasible, I prefer to eat the rude," Hannibal began to explain. He had stopped sketching and now both his hands lay on the desk, still and relaxed. He spoke of the gruesome act of cannibalism without any shame whatsoever. Erik wondered if his cellmate fit any psychological profile known to man. 

"Taste is housed in a part of the brain that precedes pity. Our primitive cerebrum has created pity, and mercy, and even murder. Have you ever met someone really despicable who left a bad taste in your mouth? Sure you have, Erik. We all have. I'm no more bound by rules of morality than Isaac Newton was by physics, as it was understood then. All I did was make something palatable out of the inherently repulsive."

"Well…" Erik was at a loss for words. The man's brain is practically like a bag of cats, the mutant realized. There was no other description that could possibly be applied to Hannibal Lecter. 

"It's perfectly "au natural" to want to taste the enemy. Can you honestly tell me that you've never thought of it?"

"Thought about cannibalism? No, I haven't." At least he could say that without being accused of lying or withholding something.

"To want to harm those that harmed you…?"

"That's different."

"Is it? What am I to you, Erik? Mad? Evil? Do you think me evil?"

"I don't know."

"You would love to quantify me, wouldn't you, like all those other puerile academics that come here from time to time to ask me questions. I'm such an enigma to them. Psychology isn't even an exact science. Barney knows it."

"Barney is a nurse," Erik said. 

"With more wit and common sense than the lot here," Hannibal stated firmly. "Particularly the administrator. Have you had the pleasure of meeting him?"

"Dr. Chilton? Yes, of course." Erik thought he needn't add that his impression of the man had been exclusively negative. "A career climber. A very obvious one."

"He has gotten where he is now by using dirty tricks to cover for his second-rate intellect," the doctor said, smiling wryly. "Hasn't quite worked out for him socially, though."

Erik was hardly surprised. Chilton had, from what he was able to tell, seemed like a very lonely, bitter excuse for a man. His yellow, nicotine-stamped teeth and ever-present smell of tobacco breath hardly worked in his favor. The thought of being intimate with him, to be kissed by him, made Erik's skin crawl with disgust. 

"Your turn, Erik," Hannibal said softly, reminding the mutant that he had to fulfill his part of the bargain. "Tell me how you manage your anger."

"I have my ways. There's meditation…"

"And when that fails you?"

"Why do you presume it does?"

The doctor gave a smug and secretive smile and leaned back in his stainless steel chair. "I see a lot."

"Sometimes I drink," Erik admitted, and admittedly only a strong sense of self-discipline had kept him from turning into a full-blown alcoholic over the years. "I try to do it in moderation."

"You're not an excessive drinker, nor are you a drug user," Hannibal remarked. "I'd notice something like that. That leaves two statistically probable options: either you're a sexual deviant, or you resort to self-harm when the pressure rises." The doctor's eyes narrowed, and there was an almost playful, mischievous glint in them. "What is your secret, Erik? Do you like to get tied up and spanked when you've been a naughty boy?"

"No, I do not practice S&M," Erik replied while looking his cellmate clean in the eye. 

"But you do resort to inflicting pain on yourself when you're under massive amounts of stress?"

The seconds that passed between Lecter's question and Erik's reply were in themselves a tacit admission. The mutant spoke up to clarify any possible misunderstandings that threatened to arise. "I have, yes."

Hannibal looked pleased with himself. "Do you by chance cut yourself with a straight razor, on your thighs so as to hide it from the people around you?"

Erik's hand twitched and reflexively went to his left thigh, where there was a neat line of scars, old and healed, some to the point of fading, at the top of the quadriceps muscle. It was easy to deflect questions considering his background as a concentration camp prisoner, and most who saw the cuts had enough tact not to inquire as to their origin. Charles, of course, knew, and so did Raven, although the latter had never asked any explicit questions or tried to make him stop. 

"Don't look so surprised, Erik dear," Hannibal said. "I've seen you naked, as you might know. It didn't take much effort on my part to deduce the nature of those scars. It's been a while since you last did it, am I right?"

"Two years," Erik admitted. The recent turn of events had made the mostly buried itch return, but there was nothing here that he could use; even the cutlery was blunt to the point of useless. 

"I won't judge you if you feel the need to do it here," the doctor said, and his choice of words surprised the mutant enough to earn a raised eyebrow. Before Erik could ask him to elaborate, Hannibal beat him to it. "If you don't find an outlet for your anger and frustration, you will get yourself in trouble. It's preferable that you use a trusted method which works for you rather than go out there and start something with your fellow inmates. I don't want you to get hurt."

Erik was unable to determine if his cellmate was being sincere or if this was simply another display of irony from the incarcerated cannibal. Either way, the advice Hannibal had given him was sound. 

TBC...


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles Xavier pays Erik a visit in prison, but will the telepath inadvertently make things worse?

_Chapter 9_

Things did, oddly enough, go back to normal quite soon after the heated existential debate between the mutant and the cannibal, or at least as 'normal' as could be expected in a maximum security unit for the criminal and insane. Doctor Lecter rarely spoke to his cellmate, and when he did, he was civil but distanced. Erik knew better than to test the doctor's patience. Hannibal would probably not be so forgiving if Erik insulted him a second time. Neither Lecter's cannibalism nor Erik's history of self-harm was brought up for discussion again, and the mutant was perfectly fine with that. However, he could not forget what Hannibal had told him about being allowed to cut himself if he ever felt the need. Erik hoped it would never, ever come to that. Who knew how the madman would react if exposed to the sight or scent of human blood? 

Erik received a brief mental image of Hannibal Lecter growing fangs like a vampire and his eyes turning red - not just pinpoints this time - when the coppery smell of blood reached his nostrils. It was so ridiculous he was compelled to laugh. 

The two men both lay on their respective cots when Barney arrived with the mail during lunchtime, as usual having nothing for Erik and a thick wad of letters for Hannibal. It turned out, though, that the nurse had something else to offer Erik; something much better than a boring piece of paper with someone's scribbles on it. 

"Erik, you've got a visitor," Barney said. 

The mutant's breath hitched in his throat. There was no response from the top bunk; no sudden movements, gasps, or anything else that might indicate Hannibal was surprised to hear the news. If he felt anything, he hid it extremely well. 

"Who is it?" Erik demanded to know. 

"I'll brief you on the way," Barney replied, sending a pointed glance in Hannibal's direction before taking out his keychain to unlock the cell door and let the mutant out.

Erik could barely contain his excitement, but at the same time he experienced an equal amount of anxiety. He did not even dare guess who his mystery visitor might be. He hadn't spoken with anyone outside the asylum since he was committed except his lawyer on a few occasions, and then never face to face. The man was useless anyway, and Erik would have fired him had it not been for the very simple fact that he knew he wouldn't be able to afford anyone better.

_I hope it's not that FBI agent again; what's his name? Crawford?_ Erik thought. _No, if it was, Barney would have said I'm being brought in for questioning, not that I have a visitor. Technically I'm allowed to decline a visit, if I want to._

Barney didn't speak until they'd rounded the corner and were safely out of earshot from Doctor Lecter and the other inmates of Erik's block. 

"A Charles Xavier is here to see you," the big nurse informed the mutant. 

Erik was pretty sure that his heart literally took an extra leap within the confines of his ribcage. There was a momentary weakness in his legs, but he recovered quickly and did not require Barney's support to walk or stand. Doing so would have been an embarrassment, and his pride was one of very few things Erik had managed to hold on to. But despite valiant attempts, Erik could not contain his exhilaration. Charles had come to visit him! That which he had not even dared to hope for had happened. _Was_ happening. 

"Is he a friend of yours?" Barney asked, and Erik's joy was mildly dimmed by the realization that he was still a prisoner in this underground dungeon and would not be joining Charles out in the open when his fellow mutant left the building. Charles would return to his everyday life, but Erik wouldn't. 

"That's complicated," Erik simply said, not in the mood to offer a more extensive answer. He hoped Barney would get the message, and not surprisingly, the nurse did. Deciphering a patient's mood was an integral part of a nurse's job, and Barney possessed above average empathic capabilities. 

"I've heard of Xavier," Barney said, changing topics. "He's some kind of civil rights activist, isn't he? For mutant rights?"

"Yes."

"Is he one?"

A momentary pause. "It's not that I don't trust you, Barney, but I can't risk that information being made public," Erik said. "No offense."

"None taken," Barney said earnestly, and it was obvious he really meant it. It was not unlikely that the man, being of African American descent, had personally experienced racial discrimination and therefore felt strongly about the matter, even though he wasn't a mutant himself. He wondered if Barney as a small lad had idolized Martin Luther King and adopted some of the reverend's values, but he did not feel it was appropriate to ask. 

While Erik was overjoyed at the thought of seeing Charles, the impending meeting also filled him with apprehension. He had not seen his old friend or spoken with him since the trial, and no attempts had been made on Charles' end to initiate a telepathic bond. What if Charles was here simply to tell him that he desired no further contact with Erik, ever. Erik did not believe the telepath would be so cruel, not even after everything Erik had done, but as always, he had no way of knowing for sure. Perhaps Charles, who was not immune to the pressures of public opinion, had finally caved in to the demands of his precious X-Men, particularly Scott Summers. The kid hated Erik and made no secret of it. It had occurred to Erik that Scott always referred to him by his alias to further establish a lack of an emotional connection. Magneto this and Magneto that. Sometimes he had felt compelled to slap that arrogant snot-nosed young man in the back of the head, and only the knowledge that _he_ would come off as the immature and hateful one had deterred him. 

The visiting area was not quite as bleak and sterile as the interrogation room or the canteen, for that matter, but it was by no means an invigorating sensory experience. The only source of joy presented itself in the form of Professor Charles Xavier, wheelchair-bound headmaster of the Xavier Institute for Gifted Youngsters and Erik's oldest friend. Erik could not explain it except that Charles possessed an inexplicable ability to light up any space he occupied. It was a startling contrast to his cellmate, who instead of projecting light appeared to be absorbing it, very much like a black hole. 

Erik heard the click of the lock sliding into place when Barney closed the door, and they were alone. The incarcerated mutant was grateful to be free of the restraints that were no doubt used on more dangerous and unpredictable patients, as it would have been greatly humiliating to appear in front of Charles in chains. 

Their eyes met before either man spoke; Xavier's like green Irish moorlands while Erik's brought associations to the sunny blue skies in Antarctica. 

"Erik," the telepath said with a small, cautious smile. For a moment Charles tightly clutched the armrests of his wheelchair, as if unsure what to do with his hands. It was a behavior which Erik recognized and which had become more prominent after the other mutant lost the use of his legs. 

"I didn't know if you'd want to see me," Charles continued. "I decided to take my chances. How are you doing, Erik?"

"I'm still alive, am I not?" Erik said with a wry little smile that did not reach his eyes. 

"I wish you wouldn't hide behind sarcasm," the telepath said gravely. "Are you comfortable? How are they treating you here?"

"Better than I expected. The food is sub-par, and the bed is very bad for my back, but what could be expected from a state institution?"

"I'm sorry, Erik." Oddly enough, Charles really acted like he was, and knowing his friend, Erik did not doubt for a moment that the telepath's sense of guilt was genuine. Charles had a habit of thinking everything was his fault for one reason or another. It's what made him… Charles. It was both endearing and terribly frustrating at the same time. 

"For what?"

"I wish I could have been there for you when you needed me."

"I'm a grown man, Charles. I'm fully capable of making my own decisions and living with the consequences." Erik could not mask the tremble in his voice. It frustrated him that Xavier still harbored the idea that Erik was somehow his to "fix" and that the hurt in his soul could be healed by love and attention. Naïve, idealistic Charles, so incapable of understanding basic human nature despite all his insight into the human psyche. He suddenly wondered if Hannibal would still hold Charles in such high esteem, professionally, if he got to know the professor personally and learned of his ideals. 

The telepath nodded his bald head, looking sad and weary. "I see."

"Why did you come here? Clearly not to gloat?" Erik ran his tongue over his teeth and the roof of his mouth, looking at the other with the kind of the casual indifference he had learnt from Hannibal in their time sharing the cell. 

Charles gave him a wounded glance. "I just… wanted to know how you were getting on…"

"Twenty-three hours in the cell, one hour to walk around, go to that shitty library, that sort of stuff. That's my life now, Charles. I can sum it up in one sentence, if you'd like. I'm not allowed outside, I'll never see a tree, water, or even sunlight again. My eyes will be shot in a few years, and I won't even be able to read anymore. Do you want me to continue?"

"Erik, I know you're frustrated, and angry--"

"You don't know a goddamn thing. And how could you? You've never experienced real hardship or had to fight for your survival. If you had, you might be more inclined to see things from my perspective. Maybe you should try that instead of lecturing me and preaching to me." 

Erik only ceased his tirade for an intake of breath, and when he turned to look at Charles again, the telepath's face was mottled with red and there was a distinct wetness akin to tears on the surface of his eyes. Though part of him felt guilty for taking his anger out on his old friend, another part - a bigger part - took twisted pride in having made Charles (almost) cry.

"Erik, I only ever wished you to be happy," Charles said quietly, almost whispering. 

"Wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up first," Erik shot back. It wasn't like him to use such crude language, especially when conversing with someone as cultivated as the telepath, but now he simply couldn't help himself. He'd been bottling up for too long. 

"Now you're being deeply unfair," the bald mutant pointed out. "I did everything in my power to help you after you were caught, bearing in mind that there was only so much I could do for a confessed terrorist."

"Surely not _everything_ in your power, Charles?" Erik said with a sneer, his voice filled with sharp edges. "If you wanted to, you could free me right here and now. We could walk out of this hospital together - well, not literally, but you get the idea - and these brainless little people, so preoccupied with themselves, scurrying about like mice and looking for direction, would be none the wiser." 

Charles' eyes, though full of hurt, returned Erik's icy gaze with steady determination. He had pushed his old friend into a confrontation, he knew, and despite his general dislike of conflict, Charles would defend himself if his values were infringed upon.

"And what do you think would happen to me, to the school, and all my students, if I did that?"

"They'd come for you," Erik replied without hesitation. They both knew it was the truth. 

Charles nodded, watching Erik with a slight tilt of his head. The captive mutant knew what the gesture meant, and he was not more comfortable with it now than he'd been over forty years ago in the beginning of their relationship. The telepath was peeking into his mind, not openly reading his thoughts but rather sneaking around them to see if something happened to seep across through their bond. 

"Perhaps we could talk about something else," Charles suggested, perhaps in an attempt to diffuse a tense situation. "Your cellmate, for example. What is he like?"

"Courteous. Leaves me be, most of the time." _Except when he's bored._

Charles' eyes narrowed. Erik wondered if he knew whom Erik had been placed with and most importantly, what Hannibal Lecter was imprisoned for. 

"Has he ever--?"

"No, he hasn't forced himself on me sexually," Erik interrupted, having figured out the question beforehand. 

Charles visibly relaxed, his relief palpable. Erik considered whether he should mention that he sometimes felt as though Lecter had raped his mind rather than his body, but he decided against it. He also did not mention the attempted rape by the neo-Nazi in the showers. There was no point in making Charles feel guilty about things that were out of his control. 

"He is a murderer," Xavier said. He needn't specify whom he was referring to.

"So am I, technically speaking," Erik replied. 

"He's different from you."

"So are you."

Charles rubbed at the bridge of his nose, clearly worn out by the discussion. Erik wondered how much of the telepath's energy was spent purely on keeping other people's thoughts out of his own head. A substantial amount, he suspected. At times he pitied Charles. The other man did not possess Erik's resilience to emotional fluxes and was very easily influenced by the moods of those around him. Supposedly that came with the territory of having foreign thoughts constantly fed into your brain. Not that there weren't upsides to everything. Apart from making him an excellent and powerful motivator, it also made Charles a highly intuitive and sensual creature in other areas of his life, particularly in bed. Sex with the telepath had always been an incredibly intense experience, as Charles' unique ability to connect their minds as well as their bodies resulted in a climax that was literally twice the intensity of a regular orgasm experienced by a single individual. He'd made Erik see stars nearly every time.

Those days were long past. Erik forced himself to look at the man in front of him as an ideological opponent rather than a person he used to respect, love and cherish. It was easier that way. 

"Charles, my safety is no longer your concern," he said. "In fact, I would like you to leave now." The words came out perfectly formed and his voice sounded fine - low, steady - speaking them, but immediately afterwards he wished he hadn't. Erik wondered if he was projecting his innermost thought and desires, and while his stubborn pride baulked at the notion, he knew that if Charles abandoned him, he'd have no one. The telepath was his first visitor since his arrival here months ago and was also likely to be his only one. When Charles left, all he had was Hannibal. Nonchalant superiority coupled with a predatory interest in a crackling psyche - that was what Hannibal Lecter had to offer him, and he could not bear it. 

Erik turned his face away, averting his eyes from the other mutant's. He would not look at Charles again. "Please, go," he repeated, this time with a very distinct plea, partly because Hannibal's impeccable manners had been rubbing off on him, but also because he knew it would have a greater emotional impact on his old friend.   
For a long while following the magnetic mutant's request, the telepath said nothing, and Erik began to suspect they'd be spending the rest of the visiting hours in silence until someone forcefully wheeled Charles out. 

"Was it a mistake… coming here?" Charles finally asked, his tone gentle and his approach careful, probably to give Erik ample time to refute his earlier claim. 

Erik, still refusing to look at his former friend, gave the smallest of shrugs. 

_I don't know what you expected_ , he sent across their link, positive that Charles would pick it up. 

_I brought no expectations with me_ , Charles replied. _Just…hope._

_Ah yes… your continuing search for hope_ , Erik retorted, his mental voice just as dry and ridden with sarcasm as his physical one. He tapped his temple with a forefinger. _Are you finding any?_

"I'll keep searching," Xavier replied audibly. 

The sound of the door opening startled them both, and Erik realized their hour was up. Charles would have to leave now whether he wanted to or not. Erik asked himself if this was the last he would see of his old friend and deemed it unlikely. It might take some time - Charles always needed time to process things internally, especially that which was hurtful or emotionally overwhelming - but the telepath would come back. Charles always did. 

The walk back to his cell with Barney was not as grim as Erik had feared. He could endure Hannibal's heckling and taunts if he had something, anything, to look forward to. A visit from Charles was the best he could hope for. 

*

The doctor was sitting on the floor in the lotus position when Erik returned. He stood with the elegance and grace of a well-trained dancer, stretching his strong, wiry limbs hidden beneath the baggy cotton jumpsuit worn by all the inmates. Hannibal looked and acted outwardly calm, but behind his strangely colored eyes, a storm was brewing. Erik felt a sudden impulse to bolt like a horse sensing an imminent threat. 

"Did you enjoy your visitor, Erik?" the doctor asked, his voice soft and gentle but at the same time more sinister than he had ever sounded to the mutant. The placidity projected was only surface-deep. Erik suddenly had a premonition that he would not survive the day. 

"Y-yes," he stammered, unable to read Lecter and figure out what the other actually wanted. The man was livid for some reason, and Erik could not for the life of him figure out what he'd done to cause such a reaction.

"Did your friend Xavier inquire about me?"

Erik briefly wondered if someone had mentioned to Hannibal the identity of Erik's visitor, but then he remembered that such was hardly necessary. 

"Not much. He asked if you'd hurt me." 

"And what did you tell him?"

"Look, whatever you're worried about--"

"I'm not worried."

A slow, wide and menacing smile formed on Lecter's face, exposing most of his small, very sharp teeth. To Erik he looked frighteningly like a great white shark at that particular moment, just as deadly and devoid of human emotions. 

"You wouldn't tell me what your friend can do, but I know now," the doctor said, and a terrible truth dawned on Erik; Charles had used his telepathic ability to try to get inside Hannibal Lecter's mind and got caught. Hannibal had clearly taken umbrage and would do what he saw fit to exact his vengeance, except Charles was not here to pay the price. Erik would have to do that in his place.

Erik knew that begging Lecter to spare him would have absolutely no effect; if anything, it would only excite the demented doctor. Unbeknownst to himself, the mutant backed up against the bars when his cellmate advanced toward him until he simply ran out of room to recoil further. He had noted on several occasions that Hannibal's body language was decidedly snakelike, and the doctor really did strike like a cobra when he charged, grasping Erik around the throat with one hand and squeezing hard enough to cut off the mutant's airflow. Within seconds black spots invaded Erik's vision and he uselessly clawed at the other man's forearm. Instinctively he fought back despite knowing it was ultimately useless. After only ten seconds the dark spots grew until they filled his entire vision, and Erik slumped against his attacker, unconscious. 

TBC...


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik receives punishment for something that wasn't even his fault. Hannibal displays a decidedly nasty side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unpleasantness ahead! You have been warned. If you're in any way triggered by depictions of self-harm, you're advised to proceed with caution.

_Chapter 10_

The first thing that occurred to Erik when he woke up was that his throat was hurting greatly. The second was that he could hardly move. He was lying supine on his cot, spread-eagled, all four limbs tied down with strips of sheet, and on top of everything, something had been stuffed into his mouth to prevent him from screaming. It took him a few extra seconds to realize it was his own underwear. Hannibal Lecter was hovering nearby, unfazed by Erik's distress. The lights were on, both inside the cell and in the hallway outside, but Erik's eyesight had not yet returned to its full capacity and he could see Lecter holding something in his hands which he passed back and forth. He could not, however, tell what it was. 

A pitiful, pathetic noise was all the mutant could force past his gag, but it was enough to attract Hannibal's undivided attention and alert the doctor to his newly regained state of wakefulness. 

Lecter sat down on the edge of the cot and stroked Erik's hair back from his face in a mock gesture of tenderness. The mutant produced another choked whimper, trying to twist away, and his captor smiled indulgently. 

"Nuh-uh," Hannibal gently admonished. "I can have the gag removed, but only if you promise me not to scream. Can you do that, Erik? Blink once for yes, and twice for no."

Though in a state of upheaval, Erik was still able to take instructions and blinked once, slowly, absolutely intent on keeping his promise to stay silent. Screaming would do little good in a situation such as this. Before any of the orderlies or nurses could enter the cell, Lecter would have time to kill him in a number of creative ways. Erik calculated it would take the doctor no less than three seconds to break his neck if he felt like it. 

Hannibal pulled the discarded pair of white cotton briefs out of his cellmate's mouth and Erik savored the first lungful of air unhindered by a fabric filter. The sudden inhalation made him cough, and he hoped the doctor would be kind enough to overlook the noises he made. It turned out that Hannibal did, perfectly reasonable even at a time like this.

There were a million questions Erik would have liked to ask his captor, but he had promised Hannibal silence and deemed it wise not to speak unless he was directly addressed. Insanely enough, Lecter offered him water and even went as far as to hold his head up to prevent Erik from choking on the liquid. 

"Feeling better?" the doctor asked. "You may speak, Erik."

"What are you…? Why are you doing this?" the mutant croaked, his voice hoarse and raw from being choked earlier. He asked himself how he would explain the bruises on his neck if someone inquired as to how he got them, but the it occurred to him that he might not need to, as it was far from certain that he would survive the ongoing ordeal. 

"Why?" For a split second a flicker of annoyance passed over Lecter's regal features, and then the man sighed exasperatedly. "Why do you think?"

Erik suspected it was imperative that he managed to give the right answer, but apart from the obvious reason to preserve the sanctity of his mind and avenge the subsequent violation of it, Erik could not think of why the doctor would want to hurt him. 

"I didn't ask Charles Xavier to look into your head," he said. "In fact, I didn't even know he'd done it. I am not responsible for his actions, so it makes no sense that you would punish me for his misdeeds." Erik realized the accusing tone of his voice and quickly shut up. Lecturing a madman while he had you tied up and at his mercy was perhaps not the cleverest thing to do. However, Erik's mouth often ended up getting the better of him, and this was one of those times. 

Instead of looking offended, the doctor smiled. He did not resemble a shark this time, but a well-fed lion, content to toy with its prey. "Very good, Erik. You've impressed me. I half-feared you would start begging and try to appeal to my emotions. I'm glad you're not that way inclined. Begging demeans a person."

"Been there, done that," Erik said coolly. "It got me nowhere then."

"What else did you learn from your time in captivity, Erik?"

"I learned people will never, ever change!" Erik spat out, aware of his hateful and bitter he came out sounding. He'd had this discussion with Charles more times than either of them could count, and it never amounted to anything, despite either man's attempts to challenge the other's views. 

"Do you detest all humans, Erik?"

"No," the mutant replied truthfully. "But those drawn to power all tend to share one defining attribute, which happens to be the unwillingness to share. I had two choices; either go with the flow and wait till they started herding us into ghettos for the second time in my life, or act before that could happen. I chose to act."

"You have strong conviction, Erik. Do you normally trust your intuition?"

"It hasn't let me down so far."

"What is it telling you right now?" Lecter cocked his head to the side, and Erik knew what the real question was: 'do you think I'll spare you?'

"If you'd wanted to kill me, you would have done it already, so I can only assume you want something else. Make an example of me, perhaps? Or is this simply your twisted view of entertainment?" Erik sighed, really not in the mood to indulge his cellmate's desire to play games. He tugged experimentally on his bonds and once it was established that he was irrevocably trapped with absolutely no chance of escape, an unexpected weariness set in. 

"If you're going to kill me, get to it," he snapped at Lecter. "I cannot fight a war from inside a prison cell anyway, so what's the point of being alive? I will ask you to do it quickly, if you may."

"Do you want to die, Erik?" The cannibal sounded genuinely intrigued. 

"Truly? No. But I'm not being of much use to my people from in here."

"Ah well." Hannibal Lecter finally revealed what he'd been passing between his hands earlier, and the sight turned Erik's stomach into small, hard knots. The object was made of hard plastic, and the mutant guessed it had once been a spoon or at least an eating utensil which had been sharpened to the point of being usable as an improvised bladed weapon. Erik was not interested in knowing how Hannibal had acquired or constructed it, nor what he intended to use it for, originally. All he could think about was the damage the doctor could inflict upon him with such a simple, harmless-looking item. 

"You will not die today, or by my hand," Lecter explained calmly. "But your lover did a very rude thing, Erik, by trying to look into my mind without permission. I'll have to do something to dissuade him from attempting it a second time."

"Charles and I aren't lovers anymore," Erik quipped back. It was easier to counter that claim than to argue against the other implication in his cellmate's statement. 

The doctor brushed an errant lock of silver hair from Erik's damp forehead and simultaneously held the improvised cutting tool visible to him with his other hand. The mutant's heart rate sped up like a rogue train. 

"Even if you aren't in a carnal sense, you are still the love of his life, aren't you, Erik? For Charles Xavier, there was always just you." Hannibal pursed his lips and ran his fingers along the line of Erik's jaw and over his pronounced cheekbone, his touch gentle and feather-light. Erik knew how quickly it might shift into something more violent and held his breath.

"Give your friend the following message, hmmm?" Hannibal said, the word "friend" now pronounced in a mocking fashion. "If I ever catch him trying to read my thoughts again, I will turn the love of his life's face into a Picasso painting. Are you familiar with the works of Picasso, Erik? Or perhaps his abundant use of plastic as a medium did not appeal to your taste?"

One solitary tear escaped Erik's left eye and trickled down his cheek, and was quickly caught up by Lecter's softly callused thumb-pad. The mutant didn't doubt for one moment that the other would hesitate to carry out his threat, although he was also aware that Hannibal hadn't caused him any serious or permanent injury yet, and he wanted it to remain that way. 

"I'll let him know… if he comes back," he said, hoping Lecter would be pleased. 

"You really needn't wait that long, Erik. He is powerful enough to hear your thoughts right now, if you broadcast strongly enough. It hasn't been a full half hour since he left, and it's a three-hour drive from Baltimore to Westchester."

Erik knew at once that he could not refute Lecter's claim. Charles and he had occasionally communicated across even longer distances without needing Cerebro, but then always on the telepath's initiative. He wanted - no, needed - reassurance from the other before attempting anything of the kind, however. 

"Will you let me up if I do it?" Erik asked, lifting his head enough to look at the other properly.

"I'll untie your bonds… eventually." Hannibal spun the homemade cutting tool in his dexterous hands and spoke in a businesslike voice. "Barney will be doing his rounds in half an hour," he said. "As a gesture of good will, I'll let you choose your punishment."

Erik's first impulse was to spit in the self-righteous madman's face and tell him to shove his "choices", but he reined in his emotions, reminding himself that they were better suited for a future situation when he was not tied up or at the mercy of someone clinically insane. 

"What are my choices?" he asked from between clenched teeth. 

"Deliver the news to your friend, and I'll tell you afterwards."

Despite an intense wish to argue, Erik bit his tongue and focused on his task of reaching out to Charles. He himself had absolutely zero telepathic ability and could therefore not guarantee success, although he was familiar enough with Charles' mind to assume his old friend might pick something up. Eyes closed, Erik allowed his thoughts to wander… 

The connection was established faster than he had dared to expect. For a moment Erik saw things through the telepath's eyes and could tell Charles was in a car, seated in the front passenger seat, headed north on Interstate 95. Erik couldn't help but wonder if he had been expecting a message from his incarcerated fellow mutant, considering how… _receptive_ he turned out to be. 

Erik didn't waste any time on pleasantries or greetings of any kind. He sent a number of images across their psychic link, very much like playing a slideshow on an image projector; of Hannibal, the knife, of himself tied up and gagged, and finally one of Picasso's most famous cubism style paintings to convey the fate that would fall upon him if Charles did not comply with Lecter's demands. Erik was still seeing things through Charles' eyes; he saw the cars on the interstate flashing by at a tremendous speed and in his peripheral vision he saw the red sleeves covering shapely arms leading away from the steering wheel - Jean, the driver was Jean Grey - and for a moment he also felt the raw terror the news brought to Charles, and then…

A panicked thought ( _NO!_ ) and a noise akin to a shotgun blast in a closed room sounded within Erik's head and the connection with Charles was instantly severed. It momentary wiped his thoughts clean and left him gasping for breath. Psychic outbursts were not uncommon for telepaths, especially inexperienced and nosy ones, but Xavier's degree of self-control usually prevented such from occurring. 

When Erik's senses returned, he could see Lecter crouched by the bed, cradling his head between his hands, and from that moment on the mutant housed absolutely no doubt that his cellmate had heard the cry as well. His suspicions were confirmed once and for all when Hannibal looked up and there was a thin line of blood seeping from his nose. The doctor touched his upper lip, and for the first time Erik observed genuine astonishment in his expression. 

"Well, you people are certainly anything but dull," Hannibal said with a wry little smile and stood up. He did not appear frightened or shocked but merely intrigued, and yet Erik wondered if he would have to endure a harsher punishment due to Charles' lack of control. 

"I thought you hated dull," the mutant said.

"Ahh, I do. But you will not persuade me to skip your punishment by appealing to my intellectual vanity." 

Erik exhaled loudly, both mentally and physically fatigued by the whole mess. It had been an exhausting few hours, with Charles' visit and subsequent panicked response, the rehashing of a decade-old argument which stirred up conflicting emotions, and last but not least, Hannibal Lecter's brutal assault of him followed by the threat of punishment for something that wasn't even his doing. Maybe he was getting too old for all of this. 

"What are my choices, Hannibal?" he asked, hoping the other would not mistake his weariness for apathy. 

"Very simple, Erik." Lecter spoke as he wetted some toilet paper to wipe away his nosebleed. "Either I will cut you, or you will cut yourself."

"Excuse me?!"

"Don't tell me the thought hasn't crossed your mind already. Today has been particularly stressful for you, and you know what they say, "if you have an itch, go scratch"."

"Barney would notice," Erik protested. It was the first thing that came to mind and he went with it. Besides, it was true.

"No doubt," Hannibal agreed and then proceeded to roll his eyes. "Oh Erik, you really need to give Barney more credit. He's seen your scars and reached the same conclusion I did. Without any interference from me, I might add. Barney is less forthcoming than I am, for good and bad. He would not begrudge you some stress relief."

"And if I refuse?"

"I will cut you in a far more painful location."

The mutant relented, seeing no point to argue. Lecter would win either way, so he might as well play the game and spare himself some physical discomfort. He gestured at his bonds and looked at the other. "You'll have to release me if I'm expected to do it myself."

The psychiatrist smiled, feigning a look of surprise, as if the thought had just now occurred to him. "Of course."

Hannibal leaned over his bound cellmate and deftly untied the knots keeping Erik's arms tied to the iron bedposts and then took a step back, clearly expecting the mutant to free his own legs. Erik quickly got to it, part of him fearing that Lecter would change his mind, but his fingers did not possess the same level of dexterity as the doctor's and the process of untying knots was therefore slower. It occurred to Erik that Hannibal might have been an accomplished surgeon, if the steadiness of his hands was anything to go by. Had he perhaps operated on his patients with the specific intent of removing organs for later consumption? Though a ludicrous thought, it could not be totally ruled out. 

"Ten minutes until Barney arrives," Hannibal said, and Erik wondered how on earth he could be so certain without a clock in sight, but the doctor had yet to be mistaken about anything. He handed the improvised plastic bladed tool to the mutant, and Erik shuddered at the force required to produce bleeding cuts with such a blunt weapon. The straight razors he'd used in the past had been just that - razors - and thus a small nick was all it took to accomplish the desired effect. 

Erik started to slowly unbutton his prison jumpsuit, and for a moment he thought he could feel his old scars throbbing as if to remind him of their imminent re-opening. The hairs on his arms stood up against the fabric and caused prickles of discomfort to run along his skin as he pulled the garment off. Now clad only in his plain white T-shirt and underwear, Erik glanced toward his cellmate and punisher for further instructions. 

"You're not going to cut in the same old tracks," Hannibal informed the mutant. "Go lower."

Lower? Erik's gaze travelled from the knotty white-ish scar tissue on his thigh to his long, bony feet. He had never liked the appearance of them uncovered - ugly, broad, flat contraptions that they were - but he had deeply enjoyed those moments of bliss when Charles, or sometimes Raven, offered to give him a foot rub after a long and hectic day. He briefly feared Hannibal was going to try to make him cut off a toe, but there was simply no way such a drastic action could be hidden from the nurses or in any way rationally explained. 

"Your right sole, Erik. Slice it," the doctor instructed. 

Erik knew his whole body was going to suffer for a long time ahead if he followed the command; there was simply no way a wound like that could be left to heal in peace, as he literally needed his feet to get around, but the simple statement by Hannibal that he would inflict damage someplace much more painful overshadowed and and all doubt he might have had about complying. 

Erik pressed the blunt blade against the arch of his foot - the skin was thinner in that area and would not have to bear the brunt of his weight during walking - and then slashed. The first attempt did not break skin, even though the pain certainly suggested he'd cut deep enough. He tried again and bright red liquid flowed from the laceration, contrasting garishly with the pallor of his skin and the bluish network of veins beneath. The mutant bit back a pained groan. 

"Another one. On your heel," Hannibal said softly. Erik hated him in that moment, wishing he were fast enough to bury the shiv in Lecter's eye socket. The odds, however, were not in his favor. Before he could do the deed, chances were good the doctor would manage to wrestle the tool from him and use it to disembowel him. Lecter might go into Solitary with a few scrapes and bruises, but Erik would be dead, and he didn't have a death wish…so far. 

The skin on his heel was thicker, tougher, and all the more painful to slice through. Erik grimaced, knowing he would be reminded of this moment every time he set his foot down for a long while ahead. The cuts bled more profusely than he had anticipated, and before he got the chance to wrap them up, blood was soaking through the bedclothes and mattress, creating sticky red circles in the layers of fabric. 

Hannibal tossed a clean towel at the mutant, and had he been a less polite man, Erik likely would have heard loud expletives coming from his mouth.

"Clean yourself up," the doctor said. "Barney will be here in two minutes."

Erik did as told, using the strips of sheet Lecter had tied him up with to bandage his foot. It hurt now, more than during the actual cutting, and he considered - for less than a second - to search through the cell for the doctor's stash of narcotics stolen from the dispensary. Almost as quickly as the thought appeared, it struck him that such an action would undoubtedly result in further punishment on his part. 

As if on cue, the sound of Barney's heavy footfalls was heard from the corridor. Erik quickly lay down and pulled the covers up to his chin, hoping the nurse would buy his act of feigning sleep. There was - to his knowledge - no visible blood in the cell, and he hoped Barney did not have Hannibal's uncanny ability to sniff out everything. 

"Good evening, Barney," the doctor said pleasantly and the nurse replied in kind. At that moment, Erik hated them both. 

TBC...

**Author's Note:**

> I took some personal liberties with the layout of the Baltimore State Hospital and the placement of Hannibal's cell. For the sake of convenience, he's also allowed outside to leave his cell for a certain time each day without being strapped to a handtruck.


End file.
